


The Singer, Not The Song

by garnettrees



Category: X-Men: First Class (2011) - Fandom
Genre: Accidental Bonding, Accidental Marriage, Alpha/Beta/Omega Dynamics, Alpha/Omega, Alternate Universe - No Powers, BAMF Charles, BAMF Emma, Calm Down Erik, Canon Jewish Character, Charles Xavier has a Ph.D in Adorable, Corporate Espionage, Correspondence, Denial of Feelings, Emma Frost HBIC, Emma Knows You'd Be Doomed Without Her, Emotional Constipation, Erik Has Feelings, Erik Logic Is The Best Logic, Erik is Crushing Harder than a 12-year Old Girl, Erik is not a Happy Bunny, Extrasolar Colonization, Fictional Religion & Theology, Friends to Lovers, Gender Issues, Honestly Charles What Are You Thinking, Honestly Erik what are you thinking?, Love Letters, M/M, Oblivious, Obliviously in love, Omega Verse, Political Alliances, Post-Earth, Religious Imagery & Symbolism, Romantic Friendship, Scenting, Science Fiction & Fantasy, Shaw Being a Manipulative Bastard, Smitten Erik, Soul-Searching, Space Opera, Warning for Shaw
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2015-03-11
Updated: 2017-02-07
Packaged: 2018-03-17 11:06:11
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 5
Words: 26,921
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3526919
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/garnettrees/pseuds/garnettrees
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>At thirty five, Erik Lehnsherr is a successful (if unbonded) alpha, with a well-established engineering firm. He has good business partners, an interesting profession, and an omegan confidant. Of course, societal conventions have ensured they know one another only through letters, but Erik still considers Charles his closest friend.</p><p>Xavier's gender merely puts an interesting twist on their political debates.</p><p>... That is, until Charles decides to forsake all outside contact for the relative freedom of an all-omega scholar's monastery, sending Lehnsherr into an emotional tailspin. </p><p>The audience knows where Erik's bad life choices will lead him, even if he doesn't.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I know, I'm sorry. I need another WIP like I need a group of Martians tap-dancing in my spleen. -_-' It's not my fault! ... in some way that I haven't quite figured out yet. I've actually been working on this one since August, and finally have enough cleaned up to consider posting.
> 
> *Auntie Meredith Voice* You see, there comes a time in every fic writer's life when she must succumb to temptation and write an a/o story. This is mine. 
> 
> I really hope this doesn't mean I've popped my last fic-cherry. X_X I might have to cry.

_"It's the singer not the song/_  
that makes the music move along."  
-"Join Together", by The Who

 

 

"I beg your pardon," Erik says, in a voice so dry and devoid of inflection that he barely recognizes it as his own. "I don't think I heard you."

Raven Darkholme, the junior partner of Lehnsherr, Frost and Darkholme Engineering, looks at her mentor with an odd sort of compassion. It is heavily laden with mourning, and Erik does not think he's ever seen such a look before, much less directed at himself. 

"I said," she replies, making an abortive motion to come around her marble-top desk, "That Charles has been accepted to Athene's Basilica. He's to take orders three weeks hence." Raven is smiling, because this is a great accomplishment for Charles. At the same time, her hazel eyes shimmer with unshed tears, and her face has taken on an unpleasant mixture of paleness and flush. 'Waxen', Erik has heard it called in Old Earth literature. It is more as though, rather than giving news of accolade, she is instead informing one bereaved-- 

No. Lehnsherr curls his hand into a fist, as though he might strangle that thought into submission. His nails bite into his palm, drawing blood despite that fact he keeps them as conscientiously neat and manicured as any member of the alpha gentry. He is not aware of it as pain, only as a sensation of unpleasant wetness. His former apprentice, now business partner, blinks rapidly and turns her face away. Erik would feel a great deal of sympathy for her, if he could feel anything at all. It seems his own body, and the soul it houses, has become numb and unreal.

 

They stand in lengthy silence while Raven masters herself and Erik waits for time (or is it pulse of blood in his own veins?) to begin again. A blankness stretches before him while Raven's fists, in an unconscious mirror of his own, crush the delicate flounces of her gathered bodice. 

_'This,'_ a small, necrotic voice whispers, _'is the rest of your life'._

 

Lehnsherr's continued silence-- and whatever expression has come over the countenance he can no longer feel-- inspire Raven once more to go to her mentor's side, before her own alpha propriety halts her mid-step. She crosses to the sideboard instead.

"Maybe," she says gently, "you should sit down."

 

Erik does so mechanically, smoothing his black waistcoat and staring sightlessly at the small but stunning aquarium installed nearby. Raven's office also boasts a narrow window, through which one can survey the shipyards below and the the more distant dawn in the hills beyond. The room itself is done in dark wood and the lightest of blues, thankfully not the peerless and clinical white Emma so favors. All the same, every shade of the tasteful decor is easily put to shame by the tiny, twin specks of blue in the sole, prominently displayed holo-portrait.  
Charles' eyes, reproduced in patterns of light though they may be, draw Erik's attention every time he crosses the threshold. 

Lehsnherr's gaze is drawn there presently-- the glass cube in which a younger Raven is projected alongside her brother. Smiling and leaning into one another despite the formality of the portrait, the lines of their bodies sing of ease and contentment. Charles' face belongs on some sort of exquisite marble creation from the Artist's Pavilion, and the boy sits not at his sister's feet but on a stool only a few inches lower than the divan upon which she reclines. One of her hands rests possessively on his shoulder; Xavier has a traditional bound book in his lap, and even the oddly archaic high collar of his robes cannot hide the fact his neck is bare. There is a faint faey quality to Charles-- perhaps better described as an 'otherworldliness'-- but his jaw and hands are strong, and his shoulders solid despite their slender mold. Only his mouth-- so red!-- and the line of his ineffably graceful neck invite one to the correct conclusion.  
Young Xavier is an omega.

It is for this reason, despite five years of friendship, deep confidence and affinity-- not to mention easily thousands of letters exchanged-- that Erik Lehnsherr has never actually met Charles in person.

 

Raven hands her mentor a glass of straight lava-liquor. It's rather a strong drink for the morning, but Lehnsherr downs it quickly, hardly noticing the way she knocks back her own. Reason is filtering back to him, criticizing the reaction that sprung from his vulnerable core. Charles has been navigating the complex selection of academic acolytes practically all through their correspondence. That someone as brilliant as the Xavier could ever fail in scholarship is absurd.  
He's known this was coming-- he's known it for years. 

"It never seemed real," Raven says morosely, as though reading his mind. When he looks up sharply, he sees she is lost in her own considerations. She is, in fact, confiding in and seeking sympathy from him. He wants to ask her how the hell she let this happen; wants to bare his fangs and growl until she acknowledges a superior alpha and damn well explains herself. 

Lehnsherr does not tolerate arbitrary displays of baser instinct within his corporation, and he has even less tolerance for their sudden appearance in his own mind. This is an incomparable opportunity for Charles-- how in all the worlds was she to deny him what is at once his only escape _and_ the pinnacle of academic achievement? Her brother is omega, and therefore subject to all the laws regarding their care and protection. The continuance of the species is burden enough, the Imperium has always argued. Let alphas and betas shoulder all the myriad complications of the public sphere. 

Erik, never particularly political himself, had never really considered the Omega Movement and the surrounding furious debate at all until he encountered Charles' rather astonishing article on the implications of gene divergence for organic starship interface. The byline had described the author as an independent omega doctoral candidate with about as many degrees and certifications as one could get from traveling beta educational services and correspondence schools. Charles has published extensively in the intervening five years but he's reached a plateau-- the ubiquitous omegan 'glass ceiling'. To progress any further in his education, to obtain a teaching position-- to say nothing of research funding and equipment-- Xavier will have to leave the shelter of his family's estate. The only choice society, and Charles' own stated desire for continued freedom, will allow him is to take orders with an academic cloister. He will cast off everything tying him to the outside world, accepting life in a closed society composed only of omegas and their occasional beta liaisons. 

Charles is brilliant-- erudite, articulate, possessed of endless curiosity and a truly astonishing breadth of knowledge. He is a Renaissance man if ever there was one; self-taught in many ways, an ardent pursuer of the esoteric and the obscure, but also a philosopher with a vulnerable heart. _'Science with compassion'_ , is a phrase he often includes in his letters to Lehnsherr. Progress and discovery tempered with social justice. Erik, drawn first by the scholar's gift for writing and fearlessness in addressing radical theories, is by now very nearly a devotee as well as a friend. He and Charles argue constantly, but always with deep respect.

 

"This is such a marvelous accomplishment for him," Raven says and, though her voice is soft, it sends a jolt of unpleasant reality through Lehnsherr's musings. Briefly, he wonders if one of them-- or both-- has some sort of script they must read from. True, but trite. How many times will Erik himself need to repeat such platitudes before he can feel anything but the impending threat of being… robbed? It is as if someone has told him the precise date and time of some terrible future assault, yet bound his hands and left him helpless.

"He must be thrilled," Lehnsherr responds, feeling inane. 

"He was beside himself," Xavier's sister and legal guardian says, unable to suppress a fond smile. "Transported with joy. After about two hours, it truly sank in-- the ramifications, I mean-- and he became very solemn. Distraught, I think, though he was trying not to show it. Maybe I'm just flattering myself. We spent the rest of the evening playing holo-games and not talking about it."

"So word came last night."

"Oh, yes, official courier, thumb-print security-- the whole nine yards." Raven does not conceal the roll of her eyes, but the exasperation cannot stand against the overwhelming sorrow. "I think part of him wanted to start packing right away, but he didn't want to hurt my feelings."

 

Erik can't find himself to care much about her emotional pain, not when he feels so slain himself. Surely he's deserving of at least a tele-send, if not an actual _call_ from Charles. Even if the news were solely jubilant, Erik would have thought himself enough a confidant for his friend to share the information right away. After all, Charles called immediately-- almost manic with excitement-- when he became the first omega to publish in  The Imperium Journal of Star-Faring. 

Obliviously, Raven continues, "I wanted to tell you as soon as possible, before you encountered any rumors. Goddess knows half the R&D department subscribes to the scholarship tabloids." When Lehnsherr doesn't respond, she coughs delicately.

Not taking his eyes off the smiling image of Charles-- which tends to distract him at least once every time he's in Raven's office-- Erik mutters, "Thank you, you're most kind."

"For the gods' sake!" Darkholme explodes at last. "This is why I wanted to tell you privately. I knew you'd shut down and be useless. I should have let him deal with you."

So Charles _would_ have called. That warms Lehnsherr considerably, though he narrowly restrains himself from snapping at his junior partner. He breathes out heavily through his nose. He's learned the rituals of 'polite society' through effort and practice; none of the careful conversational designs come to him naturally. If there's a set of standards for reacting to one's best friend entering life-long seclusion, not only is he not aware of it, he doesn't have in himself to care.

 

Crossing to the dark cherrywood cabinet, Raven keys in her thumb-print ID and begins removing a rather large white box. Does she really intend to segue straight into the Monday morning agenda directly from _this_? It can't be business, though, because she suddenly looks almost chagrined. Setting the wide package on the table, she pulls her own seat closer, facing her mentor with both hands braced on trouser-clad knees. 

"I know it's inappropriate," she says apologetically. "Charles wanted me to give this to you. You don't have to accept--"

"Of course I'll accept it," Erik says quickly, gaze now quite riveted upon the package. 

"It's been hard on him, ever since he Presented. He used to love being around people, teaching and helping the other children on the estate." Raven smiles sadly. "You're his only friend, really, and I think you know that. He wanted to do something more than just send a letter or place a call to say goodbye."

 

Goodbye. A word from Old Earth; a contraction of 'G-d be with you'. Athene, the scholar-huntress, patron goddess of all chaste omegas, will be with Charles now. Or he will be with her, for always. Lehnsherr is a monotheist by inheritance if not in actual practice and to him the entire Imperial Pantheon is just a troop of fancy dolls. Of course, he respects those who feel otherwise but, at this point in his life, he doubts very much that the universe runs on anything save merciless scientific clockwork. Yet suddenly he _hates_ this goddess with the fervency of an avenger. Athene, and her fine academic cloister, and all the untouched omegas waiting to welcome Charles into their remote, cerebral kingdom. _Bitch_! Thief, usurper… 

Oh, why wasn't Charles born a beta, or  Erik's omega brother? Lehnsherrwould have spoiled him rotten, made his ancestral home a paradise of books and equipment and gardens-- a miniature cosmos with Charles as the center jewel. The Xaviers are old money, but Erik has plenty of financial standing, with corporate and political clout to boot. If he were Charles' guardian, the young man would never have felt the need to act so drastically. He could have published, studied and remained unbonded, and Lehnsherr would have had any alpha who so much as breathed near his lands shot on sight.

 

Nudging the box towards Lehnsherr, Raven jolts the elder alpha from his musings. Looking at the parcel, acknowledging how scandalized most people would be by the very concept (an omega, giving a gift to an unrelated, unbounded alpha!? the promiscuity it implies!), Erik knows his little daydream is the height of foolishness. Charles will never be satisfied with anything less than true freedom. Not just for himself, but for the omega polymorphism as a whole. It is not simply a matter of having a permissive, progressive guardian; one who won't force Charles into a political marriage or try to curb his 'headstrong' nature. Xavier is an advocate for personhood, feeling that all three genders (six, if one includes secondary sex characteristics like 'male' and 'female') suffer disservice in one way or another under the current hierarchy. From a practical standpoint, even her refusal to pressure Charles into matrimony does nothing to negate the danger he will always face in the public sphere-- the spontaneous, _veritas_ bond. 

Does Erik want to put his hands on this box, this concrete and inescapable artifact of change? It's impropriety speaks volumes. Xavier is a modest omega, not out of adherence to any stereotype, but because the last thing he wants to be accused of is coquettishness.

Lehnsherr could never turn away something from Charles, even if it is potent with morose finality. He doesn't really remember picking it up, though he must have-- for here it is in his hands, possessed of weight. Most of the blood under his nails has already dried, but a few smudges from his clenched fists still transfer garishly onto the white surface. Potent, portent. 

As if from a great distance, he hears himself making terse excuses to his junior partner, tone minimally polite. Erik tells her to write up the Monday morning agenda in lieu of a meeting, stalking to his own office with only the briefest acknowledgement of his own beta secretary. 

It is a necessary, tactical withdrawal.

 

There's only one appointment he absolutely _must_ keep today-- he cancels all the rest with the click of a button and a terse note about 'pressing matters'. That task disposed of, he throws himself into design work for the new starliner.  The Magneto\-- a military-industrial vessel intended for colonial support, has out-performed even the most optimistic efficiency projections and won continued acclaim. It's made the firm a favorite among the Admiralty and brought in more ornate corporate contracts. Lehnsherr has been enthused by this latest commission, and the artistic latitude a commercial liner allows. It takes a good while for The Scarlet Witch to ensnare him today but, at last, she mercifully takes him under her power. The world narrows to the sensible and oddly freeing two-dimensionality of blue-prints and formulae. Soon, he'll be ready to give her depth, uploading the the sketch slides to the ethereal world of light and holographic projection. She's going to put anything Stark Industries rolls out to absolute shame. 

_(and if he thinks, even briefly, of Xavier's truly marvelous treatise on the linguistic remnants of pre-polymorphic evolution-- e.g. the 'female' nature assigned to ships-- well… he's alone in his office, and there is no one to see how harshly he blinks his suddenly watery eyes.)_

 

One thing he most emphatically does not do is open Charles' gift. That will have to wait until he is at home, in his own chambers. He still rents the upper floor of the small townhouse he occupied as a graduate student-- there's no need to waste money on a sprawling statement dwelling if it will only gather dust. The landlady is most obliging, and the three rooms circumscribe a solitary, elegantly utilitarian kingdom he has spent years perfecting. The ancestral home-- that of his mother, of his far-off childhood-- is closed up. He pays for regular cleaning, maintenance, and upkeep of the grounds, but its best to let wounds like that alone. Charles once told him an Old Earth legend, of a beta woman who opened a box of wonders in the course of her divine housekeeping. The whole thing was rather picturesque in that the only ephemeral thing she managed to recapture was 'hope', but the point is well taken. It has that optimistic twist that Charles is so attracted to, and a beta heroine. He is forever going on about the visibility of betas in shared folklore. 

Briefly, Erik's gaze slides over to his own box of mysteries-- woes or small mercies 'To Be Determined'. But he has never shared Charles' letters and manuscripts-- or even his first edition copies of the scholar's published works-- with anyone else. As fatal as his curiosity feels, he's hardly going to start now.

 

He leaves his office (and the temptation) briefly for lunch. Kitty, his secretary, is looking rather harried. She's adhered admirably to his 'no calls, period' mandate, but she has paid for it. One empty glass bottle of carmel coffee sits at the edge of her desk and she's a good way into another one, to say nothing of all the vitamin-cake wrappers abandoned in the trash. She's a monotheist like he is, though doubtless more observant, and has no option but to work for her living. As a beta, she cannot inherit title, fortune or trade as an alpha can, nor does she carry with her the dowry of an omega. Erik would like to think he occasionally considered things like this before he began corresponding with Charles, but that's probably not true. Regardless, he musters what little bit of compassion he has to spare today and tells Kitty to stack the rescheduled meetings anyway she needs to. Back-to-back, all day-- hell, all week! He's going to need something to distract him from the calamity he should have expected and his own reaction, which has blind-sided him with it's depth of loss.

"Once the schedule's set, you may go," Lehnsherr says, trying to keep his tone light. Such largesse is uncharacteristic of him, but it is also a bit self-serving. Without Kitty at her post, ninety-nine percent of potentially bothersome individuals will scuttle away rather than muster the courage to knock. The other one percent never knock anyway.

To her credit, Kitty merely smiles gratefully and asks if-- in light of the marathon meetings-- he'd like her to arrange catering for the next few days. As ever, he tells her to use her own discretion. Half the time, attendees have to remind him to stop for lunch. Lehnsherr has never been a man accused of lacking focus.

 

Normally Erik takes lunch in his office, but today he needs some air and decides the company cafe will do. He's stalking across the courtyard (only peripherally noticing the employees who scatter preemptively at his scowl), when he sees a flash of white descending the stairs from the Interiors Department. Emma Frost; his business partner, former school chum, and perpetual cordial nemesis. She's impossible to miss in her shimmering chiffon tunic and pearl-colored slacks. More importantly, one glance at her face tells him she's heard the news. Erik can't quite put his finger on exactly what her expression is, though it gives him and a strong and creeping sense of nauseous deja vu. Or perhaps it is merely he doesn't want to discuss this with _anyone_ , and Emma is the only person brazen enough to force the issue. Before she can even begin moving towards him with that purposeful stride of hers, Erik veers off down a small marble pathway and past a thankfully obscuring arrangement of jasmine trees. 

Actually going off-site for something other than business is an enormous departure from routine, but there's no going back on it now. He walks the not inconsiderable distance to the entry gate as though it has been his destination all along, and hires a caleche into the City. There he eats an expensive meal at a lavish opera house cafe, tasting nothing, unmoved by the music or wine. He feels as though he's circumvolved the real issue so many times he's lost his footing, but he cannot bear to think too long on this. Erik has never thought of himself as a coward, but he's also self-aware enough to know that many an Alpha has felt that way and been deluded. It would help if he knew how he really _wants_ to react, even down to the most embarrassing instinct, but he's lost in a country left uncharted by choice. Emma jokes about keeping his heart under glass in her wine-cellar, and its one of those comments that is only funny because it so gaudily dresses up the truth. 

It is not until he glances up-- perhaps half in askance to his mother's Nameless G-d-- that Erik catches sight of his own face in one of the gilded mirrors, and realizes why Frost's earlier strange expression struck such a chord. It _is_ familiar; he has seen it on his own face, mirrored in some window or other reflective surface in the chaotic weeks just after Emma's spontaneous _veritas_ bonding. 

Only this time, that look of strange pity, incomprehension and discomfort have come back full circle.  
It's exactly the way she was just looking at him now.

* * * * * * * * *

Once, during their final year at the Graduate Engineering Atelier, Emma Frost had told Erik he should hope-- pray, even-- that he would never find his _omega veritas_.

This bit of grave and somewhat blasphemous advice had been issued scarcely five weeks after her own bonding. Emma was then twenty-six, a rather worrying age for traditional alphas longing for the completion of a _veritas_ bond. Miss Frost was about as far from that sort of romantically inclined pack-leader/provider as any female alpha could be. She was more aggressive than protective, pursuing any goal with a carnivorously single-minded focus; a flawless and ambitious lioness. Like Lehnsherr, she had not completely ruled out the possibility of an omega somewhere in the far future, but the hazy consideration had been more for the sort of political alliance that could advance a career. Carefully arranged, all hidden strings and secret mechanisms producing the sort of highly ritualized bondings so common in the society section of the news-scroll. _Veritas_ bonds, on the other hand, were completely unpredictable. They occurred in 40% of the population, and were by no means voluntary. A lightning bolt striking the poker table-- and, while the spiritual versus biological debate raged on, it was the dirty bitch Fate who held all the high cards. Emma hadn't been looking for metaphysical affinity or life-long devotion, but it had found her.

It had been more than three weeks since Erik had seen her and it was only now, in the context of so-called 'normality', that he realized just how drastically her life had changed. 'Irreparable' was an easy word to throw around, especially during moments of high drama: the public nature of the initial bonding, the very unexpected identities of the two partners, and even the hastily arranged (and _short_ ) post-bonding ceremony. Erik, ever a lover of linguistics, knew the precise definition of the adjective now so frequently used in connection with his friend. ' _Unable to be repaired, rectified, or made good_ '.

 

There had been nothing good about Emma's looks or demeanor that night. At the ceremony, they'd raised cadmium-colored banners to bless the new union with the universally acknowledged red hue of joy. He'd never thought about it before, but it was a strangely morbid custom-- after all, cadmium itself was poisonous in large amounts and very resistant to heat. Cold hands, warm heart-- my dear, such a _mundane_ witticism! It as if a relentless stain of such dye was spreading in Emma, made all the more vulgar by her typical look of icy perfection. Every line and shade of her body was brittle, platinum locks having become so ashen that they barely escaped being white. She sipped dispassionately at the heath-liquor, staring past Lehnsherr with sightless eyes at the glittering evening city below. They'd been at the most expensive restaurant in the Quarter, down by the Street of Four Rivers, and the fact that theirs had been the only occupied table on the glass balcony afforded the opportunity for a conversation more frank than they might have had otherwise. That, and the heavily alcohol-laden bottle of heath they'd ordered.

 

"I don't think I understood before," she murmured, halfway echoing Erik's own internal realization. "All those films, operas, shadow-plays and scrolls of Epic Romance." He could hear the capitalization in her tone of voice. "It's insipid, and it's a _lie_. Every time I see something-- a marquee on the street, or a novel in some foolish Alpha's bag, I just… I want to scream."

"We've neither one of us ever had time for that sort of metaphysical romanticism," Erik said, lacking anything really helpful to contribute. Ostensibly, they were having an 'Alpha's Night Out', a backwards sort of stag celebration. More circumspectly, Lehnsherr was trying-- awkwardly-- to give her some type of support, fearing that if she spent any more of her non-academic time in that new chic little marriage bungalow, she might pine away entirely. 

 

The conversation had been sporadic all through the meal, filled with long silences and non sequiturs. He'd done his best to stand by her-- to be her _ilarches_ and second throughout the whole affair-- but did not feel at all confident that he'd been any real help. Normally, the man underclassmen referred to as the 'Lord of Sharks' cared only for how the performance of any task would show his dedication to quality and his chosen trade, but this was so much more. This was the alpha who, for so long, had been his only friend and confidant. The brilliant career woman with whom he planned to build a firm and take the engineering industry by storm. She was an alpha he genuinely respected, instead of just making the usual polite, social motions that were supposed to show you recognized the other party as an equal and a potential threat. Those same complicated rules of alpha-to-alpha interaction made it difficult for him to offer her any comfort, and his desire to help in no way imparted a sudden understanding of softer emotions. 

 

"Charles says," he began, taking a conservative sip of his own drink. He saw a faint, derisive smile tug at the corner of her mouth. She did love to tease him about his 'precious scholar', and for once he was happy to give her an opportunity to feel superior. "Charles says that there's significant evidence to show that, prior to the exodus from Earth, there may have only been two sexes."

Genuine interest sparked in her eyes, derailing any pithy remarks. "Really?"

"Indeed," Erik confirmed, feeling himself relax as he warmed to the topic. "He's published several articles about it, and has just sent me the rough-draft of another. The scrolls arrived this morning. I haven't had time to look at those yet, but I'm sure they'll be fascinating."

"And here I am, keeping you from Dr. Xavier."

Lehnsherr gave her a look that would quell most alphas into bearing neck and belly. "I consider you **both** fellow _hypaspistes_."

"I'll try to take that in the spirit in which it was intended," Miss Frost arched her own disapproving look at him, but it had just as little effect. He was well aware of the discomfort with which she viewed the friendship he'd developed with Charles, but he had never been one to give much weight to others' opinions. Charles and Emma had both earned his respect, and so he did not disregard their words so lightly-- but he was still a man rarely steered from the course he himself had set.

 

What other choice was there, but to be stubborn? Had he not formed his own iron-clad sense of self, he would have been the pawn of estate lawyers and distant relatives a thousand times over. He had no real family left-- just the smoking ruin of corporate sabotage, and more funds than one could spend in a lifetime. Mama had been very clever and explicit when writing her will, knowing her only son and alpha scion would look attractive prey to any who thought they could catch him while he was young and tractable. As a result, he was her sole heir at the age of twelve-- endowed with detailed educational plans she'd made to keep him as far away from the familial and media frenzy as possible. Her own relatives (not to mention the opportunistic individuals claiming distant blood connections to her deceased omega) had been shocked, frustrated, and finally defeated by her foresight. 

Now in his fourth and final year of Graduate Atelier, he was one of the richest men in the city, and had barely touched said funds. Currency could buy many things-- including the lives, temporary love, and loyalty of others-- but he was well aware of high price money itself demanded in turn. He was a tall, well-muscled and driven man in plain but elegantly made suits, and he never failed to make an impression. Meeting him once allowed most people to form an instant and firm-- if often biased-- opinion. Awe, fear, envy, or grudging respect; no one ever felt wishy-washy about the rising engineering phenomenon that was Erik Lehnsherr. He was articulate, but taciturn-- not always out of cool contempt (which was the conclusion most jumped to), but just as often because he felt isolated even in the most crowded of rooms. He was not one for idle chatter; if he spoke, he wanted to have something to say. His papers, articles, and presentations contained more words than he'd speak in a week full of parties, because he found more things _worth_ saying when he wrote. 

"The theory is gaining a lot of traction," Erik said, choosing to ignore Emma's slight dig. "They think that our secondary sex characteristics-- that is, being male or female-- used to be primary. That only females were fertile, and that betas didn't even exist."

"'They', who?" Frost asks.

"Charles has a few fellow Omegan scholars working with him, and there's even a beta scientist who's expressed interest." He won't deny there's some pride in that last remark-- the beta will lend an air of legitimacy, regardless of whether or not that's fair.

"I'm sure the Office of Public Decency will _love_ that."

Erik grinned, the same selachian smile that earned him his nickname. "They'll never _like_ what most Omega scholars have to say, but the House of Lords has ruled they have use the same criteria for censorship they employ for Alphas."

 

"You never used to be so liberal," Emma observed faintly. Then, she stared down at the delicate cuff on her left wrist, turning it so that the smooth, cabochon moonstone caught the light. "I guess it's not my place to judge, now. I may have to be a bit more modern myself." She glanced up, making an obviously forced attempt at humor. "If I start worshiping Aletheia, do you think she'll intercede with one of her particularly difficult omega children for me?"

Lehnsherr knew enough of the general pantheon-- not to mention Frost's erstwhile omega-- to understand how little her new bondmate would appreciate that. Aletheia was the ideal of the sex she patronized, usually depicted in gossamer thin robes, with a wise-and-secret little half-smile and any number of children arranged at her feet. Despite the truly astonishing ranks of the polytheist divine, he also very much doubted a patron existed for omegas who Presented decades after the norm. Not unheard of, but rare enough to make for a fascinating scientific study. The subject himself might even develop the study, but he would have a hard time getting his old colleagues to give him the time of day now. To have thought oneself a beta for forty years…! Erik took a bite of his own meal to hide his reflexive grimace and, after a beat of silence, Emma laughed at herself. 

"No, I don't suppose he would appreciate that," she continued, almost as if Erik had answered her. "Do betas have a god or goddess? They're so close-mouthed about such things."

"Doubtless to pay us back for being forced to spend their lives mediating between the 'polarized' sexes," he observed, eyeing how little of her dinner she'd touched. His role as _ilarches_ hadn't required much contact with her new bondmate, but he knew that would change. They'd been avoiding the name all night, and might continue to do so until some ridiculous cotillion or business dinner forced a confrontation. It seemed at once a profound and paltry stumbling block, but he did not wish to lose her friendship. After more than a decade of schooling together, she could go twenty rounds with him and come out with not a dent in her icy ego or a scratch in her diamond poise. She was clever, and more willing to be underhanded than he, but he respected her methods. Despite these considerations, he knew a day would come when his promise to Mama trumped all other loyalties-- he would take blood to even the scales, and be her proper vengeance.  
Matters were exponentially more complicated, now.

 

Oddly enough, he found himself wishing he'd asked Charles for advice, or at least kept him abreast of the situation. He'd had plenty of opportunity in the numerous letters they'd exchanged since Emma's bonding, and Xavier would have been able to provide a unique perspective. Erik's own contemporaries would probably consider it hilariously appropriate, and more than a little bit pathetic, that the man he considered his most intimate and trusted advisor was actually someone-- an _omega_ \-- he'd never met. He and Charles had such an amazing intellectual rapport and, having never seen Xavier or an image of the scholar, Lehnsherr tended to envision the younger man simply as a sort of lovely far-away point of light. A star like Rigel, so warm and blue and vibrant that even those on Old Earth had been able to see it with the naked eye. Mentioning the whole recent mess with Emma might upset the delicate balance he and Charles worked so hard to maintain and, as well as he knew his friend, he had no idea which side of the argument the professor would come down on. Were there 'sides', at this point? It was becoming increasingly hard to tell. 

 

The name would have to be said eventually, and Erik was not a man to run, even metaphorically. He took a sip of his drink and asked, with studiously casual solicitude, "Has Shaw's disposition improved at all?"

"Very nice, Lehnsherr," Emma said, abandoning her delicate scrapings at the expensive dinner. "Congratulations-- I blinked first."

 

 

.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Meredith's Glossary and Bizarre World-Building Notes:  
> [+] _veritas_ \- the truth, or the Goddess of Truth, daughter of Saturn in the Roman Pantheon. She was also known as Aletheia to the Greeks. *winks*  
> [+] _Ilarches_ \- (greek) 'wing commander' or cavalry officer. Used in this case in place of 'wingman'.  
> [+] _Hypaspistes-_ (greek) 'shield-bearer', Macedonian infantry guard. In this fic, a person one considers an equal and comrade.  
>  [+] **Rigel** (Beta Orionis)- a blueish-white star (actually a supergiant, with a second binary companion) in the constellation Orion. The seventh brightest star in the sky. Referred to in some literature as ' _marines aster_ ' (the sea-star), used frequently in marine navigation, and noted for its particular brightness and lovely color. … Erik's such a sap, even if he won't admit it. ;-)
> 
> As always, thank you so much for taking the time to read my story. If I could bother you just a bit more to comment or leave kudos, I'll be forever in your debt. <3


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> *digs toe in the dirt* I have very little to say for myself, save that I appreciate all the amazing feedback and kind responses I've gotten for this story. I haven't forgotten the others, I promise-- either 'Present Tense' or 'Audience' will be updated next, depending on which gets typed faster. I think. -_-'''

Given that the memories surrounding Emma's bonding are in no way pleasant, Erik is actually rather relieved to have his reverie rather jarringly interrupted by the abrupt swell of the cafe orchestra beginning warm-up. More time has passed than he'd realized; he's by no means late, but he never intended to linger so close to the opening of the next opera. The staff is quick to clear his place and get him on his way, but it only takes a few bars of discordant, syncopated music for Lehnsherr to recognize the composer. _He_ certainly isn't a fan, but the selection makes sense for the audience this time of day.

Sure enough, he passes a murmuring cluster of about half-a-dozen bonded omegas on his way out. Decked in their best day-tunics, dresses and kilts, the omegas keep up a steady stream of soft conversation as a beta valet or bodyguard (it's hard to tell, from here), does their best to herd the group inside. One of them-- an aquiline young man Erik vaguely associates as belonging to one of the Romanov alphas-- seems to recognize Lehnsherr, leaning over to a friend with a whisper and a slight nod of the chin. Erik manages a tight, polite little smile and steps aside so the beta can hold the door open for her charges. She inclines her own head in a deeper, more respectful acknowledgement of the alpha, and the group disappears into the cafe mezzanine. The dim, faux-candlelight of the establishment allows each omega's collar to sparkle at full advantage, but Erik is not much impressed by any of the designs.

'Not everyone can make minimalism an art-form, you know,' Charles once wrote to him, gently chiding. Frost, always more blunt, simply boldly and frequently remarks that Erik is impossible to please. Lehnsherr ignores her, but is happy to tease the professor in return. Xavier has little room to criticize, possessing his own exacting academic and stylistic standards. 

Stopping on the marble path just near the marquee, Erik pinches the bridge of his nose and flinches against the agony inflicted by each sudden ray of spring sunlight. He isn't prone to migraines, but right now it feels as though an entire Imperium Mining Squadron is trying to frack the inside of his skull. His stomach turns, either in response to the physical pain or the reminder of immanent loss. Probably a bit of both. Gingerly opening his eyes, he can see his ear for music is still functioning, at least-- the marquee boldly announces _Tears of the Orange Blossom_ , by just the symphonic vandal Erik suspected. The close shade of the motorized landau he hires is a wonderful relief, and Erik draws the curtains further, blocking out both the lurid poster and the blazing afternoon. 

If he must be forced to dodge certain high-handed partners and whatever non-work related discussions they might have had in mind, at least the timing has been favorable. Resting his head against the cushioned interior of the carriage, Erik tries to will the pain down and away. He can't imagine how much sharper the driving little spikes would be if he'd been forced to sit through even twenty minutes of that particular 'epic' at the cafe. The mighty Alpha warlord raging across the California islands to rescue her abducted omega from the ruins of New Dee Cee; romantic tripe if ever he's encountered it. At least, he thinks vaguely, today's selection wasn't the same composer's hackneyed piece about the Republic of Texas. That one had been done up for telecast, and Charles' subsequent letter had allowed Lehnsherr to very clearly envision the scholar's rising (and likely adorably entertaining) ire at each painfully inaccurate historical detail. According to Charles, gaps in the ancient pre-exodus timeline were _not_ an excuse to make up purple-prose nonsense from whole cloth.

 

Rather than helping to relieve his tension, the trip into the City has only exacerbated Erik's foul mood. In spite of their wealth, Mama always impressed upon him the importance of avoiding wasteful extravagance, perhaps due to her own humble origins. Now he's wasted a good meal and two fares; though this time, the beta driver-- probably sensing his agitation-- does charge him a little less. He blames the fiasco of an afternoon entirely on Emma. How dare she look on him so, as if he were some bond-broken alpha who ought to be put down mercifully! Frost has never approved of or understood his friendship with Charles, never grasped that intellectual companionship is possible with the right gifted and erudite omega. It's not as if she and her own bonded have gained much philosophical or emotional communion in the intervening years, despite her subtle yet distressingly earnest attempts. 

Perhaps she'd been surprised Erik had been capable of making another friend at all. Hell, half the reason they'd gravitated towards one another at boarding school was because they were both emotionally awkward. Emma merely hides her discomfiture under an elaborate pantomime of social graces. The artificial nature of the corporate and political world merely serves to highlight her vivacious acting and make it appear more authentic by contrast. Erik's own reserve, while marble-chill and almost impregnable, at least has the virtue of honesty to recommend it. Even Lehnsherr has never been truly sure where he stands with his business partner and she-- given that they both have divided loyalties-- does well to be leery of him. The only two beings absolutely assured of her affection are her young omega brother and… Shaw.

 

_Shaw_. Silently, Erik damns both him and the whole notion of automatic sliding doors. He can't even have the satisfaction of slamming his own office door closed behind him! At least Kitty seems to have taken his advice. Her desk is empty, once more pristine, and clearly shut down for the day. He wonders if perhaps she wasn't trying some new vitamin pastry before she left, for there is just the faintest odor of something incredibly enticing… As much as Erik loathes his body's instinctual reactions to anger (heightened sense of smell and hearing, increased adrenaline, the slight itching of his fangs), he finds his fury is a significant relief from the dismay, sorrow and… _grief_ that have defined his morning. He refuses to pace about like some caged lower predator, genetically recreated to amuse the nobility. (Ligers are quite the fashion, at the moment.) His instinct augments his sentience; it should not be allowed to reign supreme.

Alphas are, according to every Imperium textbook, the perfect union of human intellect and the elemental 'yang' principle. Endowed with all the mental prowess the human species is heir to, along with the animal cunning and preservation instinct to survive in the unholy atomic wasteland of Old Earth's dying days. Just when or how this atavistic reintroduction had taken place is lost to history, to the void between the stars through which they'd fled, but it is definitely credited with the survival of their species. That, of course, as well as the fertility and innate nurturing instincts of every omega. Despite recent discoveries that indicated otherwise, it is generally accepted that alphas (and omegas) have always existed, even on Old Earth, but that their essential qualities had atrophied in the decadent days before The Great Burn. Often, it is hinted that their denial of 'the proper order' (what alpha-ists referred to as 'natural disposition') resulted in their doom. Afterwards, it was said that the remaining scientists were able to harness the radioactivity so foolishly unleashed by the political elite to revitalize and enhance the genetic stock. Thus armed with superior specimens, the professors had slain the old guard and set in place many of the systems and policies that kept society in perfect stasis even to this day. It was an ineffable, undeserved second chance: a virgin planet, a carefully proportioned population whose lowest members where still far more educated than those on Old Earth, and the unbreakable triad of sexes to balance society itself. 

 

"As if our own society hasn't atrophied," Charles had once confided softly. One of their rare transmission calls, that had been. Even Xavier wasn't fool-hardy enough to put such sentiments in writing. The omega scholar's voice had pitched unconsciously low as he spoke his blasphemy, though Erik could afford all the security necessary to ensure their conversation would not be intercepted. Hadn't the younger man's voice been ever-so-slightly tremulous as well? Charles always stated his opinions firmly and and without apology, but every now and then Lehnsherr had the sense his friend expected to one day be dropped altogether for his views. As if Erik were as trite as all that. They argued constantly, but Xavier's stance on any issue was never unfounded or without careful philosophical support. 

In that particular discussion, Erik had been forced-- rather abashedly-- to admit he'd never considered the rigid clockwork of post-Earth society as a whole. He loathes the political and economic labyrinth he must navigate in his quest for revenge, but never before had he considered that the Imperium's slavish devotion to the status quo could be the result of anything other than amorphous human greed. The idea that even the most solipsistic player might be a pawn in some clandestine, orchestrated design…

 

'More than five hundred years of perfect peace and preservation,' Charles had continued, a bit more boldly. 'Two hundred years since the last major scientific discovery…'

Offended, Erik had interjected in defense of his own chosen specialty. The field of star-faring made advances all the time, to say nothing of the two colonies alphas and betas had toiled to establish. 

Charles had conceded that, to a point. 'We go a little faster,' he allowed. 'We build more quickly. We colonize according to an efficient schematic and come up with worlds _exactly_ like our own. Once the 'house' is built, we ship omegas in like objets d'art. Technology gets physically smaller-- a little bit more intrusive. But have you encountered a radical new symphony lately, Erik? Read a truly seminal novel, seen an iconoclastic film? How about a sociological innovation, an improvement to the political system? Have you seen any articles on new discoveries or alternative theories in the historical field that haven't been watered down to virtual irrelevance? Do you have any idea how many publication petitions are _denied_ by the Office of Public Decency?'

 

Charles has the heart of a lion. He could have been a sage-assassin, if not for the tenderness hidden within that courage. (That, and his sex-- though many might argue the two are virtually the same.) The deep growl that issues from his own chest startles Erik; he feels the very tips of his fangs scrape against his bottom lip. Surely he is going mad! Frost should have known better, known that subtle body-language and facial expression can easily be interpreted as a challenge by another alpha. Just because Erik hasn't had a response like this since their early Atelier days doesn't mean his tolerance is infinite!

He's pressed a hasty but readable thumb-print into the cabinet scanner before he truly realizes what he's doing. The ebony doors swing open to reveal his work valise, a drawer of secure documents and data-crystals, and-- of course-- Charles' gift. For a moment, Erik doesn't know if he will seize it in anger (as if destroying this symbol could set all back to rights!) or reverence. In the end, he does neither; he simply stands staring at the white box, its surface marred only by his careless bloody fingerprints. 

_(And isn't that, too, an Old Earth story? An omega from a lone line of loveless political matches, wishing the infant he carried to have skin as white as snow, hair as black as night, and a _veritas_ bond as binding as blood.  
Maybe they're all old stories which, like old wounds, still ache now and again. )_

 

Obscurely, he feels just the slightest bit better. The dimness of the unlighted office soothes the sharpest edges of his migraine, as does the silence that insulates his grateful ears. Whatever Kitty was snacking on must have been served hot to have permeated so far but, to his heightened senses, it smells divine. Hard to pin down, though. Like fresh bread served amidst a clearing of cedars, or perhaps peaches preserved in sugar and freshly fallen snow. Warm and yielding, despite winter's chill lace, and somehow filled with light…

Erik shakes his head; he's no poet, but he occasionally has these moods. Sometimes they result in a whimsical design on the prow or in the armor of whatever starship he's building. Jakob's creative spark, finding an echo in the omega's son. Other times, such unexpected fancies are merely the prelude to a particularly lovely reoccurring dream. The only nocturnal vision he's ever had, in fact, which does not stem from the terror and loss of that long-ago explosion.

Perhaps he will be fortunate enough to have the dream tonight. It is the only thing he can imagine soothing him in any substantive fashion. 

 

At the shrill beeping of his management console, he closes and relocks the cabinet, leaving the box as yet unmolested. He exhales sharply annoyance, but its not a growl and his fangs have retracted into their proper sheaths of gum. When he settled back into his chair, he finds-- in a welcome change of luck-- that his only remaining meeting has been canceled. It seems their Raw Materials Manager has been held up on one of the mining colonies, and transmissions through such interplanetary distances are never secure enough. Especially in regards to something as delicate as negotiations for columbite and tantalite. Erik's relief is two-fold-- first, the preliminary terms have been accepted by the Imperium Mining Corps and second, he may now safely barricade himself in his office for the rest of the day. Needing no further encouragement, Lehnsherr once more embraces the _Scarlet Witch_ , wrestling with fuel equations and balance factors as though they have given personal offense. 

 

The problems are sufficiently absorbing that, for the next six hours, he checks the clock but rarely. In fact, it is only the great, pallid-silver glow of double moon-rise through his office window that prompts Erik to truly set aside work for the evening. Shrugging on his redingote, Lehnsherr carefully removes Charles' gift and his own valise from the cabinet, taking every care not to crush the former as he tucks it safely under his arm. Though he doesn't need to, he glances across the lobby balcony at Frost's closed office door. Long gone, he thinks as he puts on his hat. She is a bonded alpha and, unless there is some pressing project, works a respectable nine-to-five. And why not? She has a bond-mate to go home to.

For whatever that, and her particular omega's dubious charms, might be worth.

  


* * * * * * * * *

  


"Congratulations," Emma said on that evening long ago, rising the perfect curve of a single eyebrow. "I blinked first." At the mention of her omega's name, her bejeweled fingers seemed to clench and unclench without conscious thought, as though she were reaching for something in a dream. 

"This is not a staring contest," Erik retorted, knowing her humorous aggression was a front. How could he not, when every moment it seemed another increment of color left her already wintery palette, and her increasingly reflexive sarcasm made it seem as though he were fencing with an automaton? "Frost," he said, and actually reached for her hand.

"No, it hasn't," she answered, politely dodging his attempt. She cupped her goblet between both palms, staring into the umber liquid as though it were a scrying bowl. Finally, as though she really _had_ managed to drag herself to the confessional of some temple-church, "I love him."

Erik quite valiantly refrained from making a face. Controlling that childish reaction kept his mind off the way his stomach sank at her tone.

"I love him," she said again, in a tone of bitter disgust, "And I don't want to." When she met his gaze, her eyes seemed fever-bright. "By all the gods in their hells, Erik-- do you think I'd have given him the time of day, knowing what he'd done to you?"

"I don't blame you," Lehnsherr said, trying to be gentle. To keep the half-conscious resentment from reaching his tone. "No one could."

"I blame me." The brief animation should have revitalized her, but instead it made her more and more akin to a sick-room spirit. White dress, dulled hair and hollow cheeks. Scarlet was the only color in her as anger made her flush. "My honor, my sense of… I must be disgusting inside."

"No." Finally, he succeeded in taking her hand, and she clutched him so strongly he could feel every bone in her fingers. "I'm not going to pretend I understand. A true bond, though-- they say that's between _anima_." He paused, sifting through old memories. Did he actually believe any of this? And how could that matter, his own beliefs, in the unknown kingdom of someone else's bond? "Between the identities of two beings before they are molded by society and life experience. You love him for who he could have been."  
He swallowed, and forced the words out with only the slightest clenching of teeth, "Maybe who he is, at his best moments. Not for…"

"The pompous, un-convicted corporate murderer he shows to the rest of the world?" Frost finished archly. "Sounds like you've been reviewing some of our grade school health texts." At his somewhat abashed look, she relented. "I know what it cost you to say that."

 

Lehnsherr hid a sardonic, unpleasant smile at that. She could _not_ know the true scope of his current restraint, nor how vital the execution of his childhood vow was to his very sense of self. He was a man who prized friendship and fidelity; he did not like to consider what her new and unfortunate entanglement might end up costing him. For it seemed to him that the life of _this_ Erik Lehnsherr-- the man he was, as opposed to the boy he had been-- had begun that rainy night at the foot of his mother's freshly sealed sepulchre. It was all well and good for City folk to prattle on about their seemingly endless pantheon of gods but, amongst his own people, the One G-d was nameless. Too powerful, too ineffable to be labeled, though there were a few forbidden syllables that made a blasphemous approximation. He knew them because he had spoken them that night; in the wet and the cold, while wind lashed his cheeks and lightening flashed in monstrous shapes against the quartz and chalcedony tomb. They had been his seal upon a promise of vengeance.  
Yet vengeance, like good wine, had to age properly. There would be time yet to consider, to compensate for new variables. 

 

"You know exactly how little disposed I am to give Sebastian Shaw even an ounce of good will," he said, when he felt he'd recovered himself. Oath or no, he no longer prayed to the G-d whose name was not spoken. He prayed to his mother instead, and had spent many nights since serving as Emma's _ilarches_ kneeling before his household shrine. "So you also know I mean it when I say you're no uglier inside than I am and, if he's your omega, then there must be some microscopic particle of good even in him." Erik noted that, even as she mustered a small and oddly vulnerable smile of gratitude, the tips of Emma Frost's alpha fangs had lengthened ever-so-slightly. The natural, involuntary reaction to any perceived threat. He'd always hated the woeful and overly stylized romantic shadow plays, but he couldn't help thinking of one now. A theatrical classic, something that must have been inflicted on him in school-- _'though you betray me,' cries the amazoness Alpha, whose Omega Veritas was of the enemy tribe, 'I shall love you and hate you, and shield you until I die'._

"Thank you," she said with quiet simplicity. Pursing her lips while her fangs retracted, she shook her head-- as if bemused by atavistic display. 

"You're welcome," Lehnsherr returned. Then, before she could put her barriers back up; "I think perhaps you should see someone."

"Oh, _sugar_!" Emma released an unexpected peal of laughter. The exaggerated hauteur mingled with her look of stress, until she seemed more like some lunatic sorceress than a bond-sick Alpha. He endured her contempt because it made her look so alive. "I've humiliated him enough already--"

He interjected, "He's lucky to have done as well as you--"

But she held up a finger, flashing with its many crystal rings. "He'd have done even better to have lived the rest of his days thinking himself a beta." She paused, then shook her head, as if determined to pursue another track. "And don't think I'm deaf to all the whispers at the Atelier, and in City society at large. If I don't at least appear to get a handle on him, I'll lose so much respect that no one will dare even consider me for a business partner." When she saw he was about to speak, she overrode him once more, "Not even you, out of 'friendly forbearance'. You'd never forgive yourself if you sacrificed the chances of recouping your mother's company, and _I_ don't take charity."

 

That emphatic statement lingered mournfully in the air, mingling with perfumed breeze and the sound of delicate chimes from ships in the nearby harbor. Far to the west, a few clouds picked up the fading rays of sunset and defused them to smudges of violet. Their waiter-- a faun-like beta in silent satin shoes-- stopped by to discretely tempt them with dessert. Erik frowned more heavily when Frost waved the offered delicacies away. Her plate, heaped with tender white cuts of meat and lemony herbs, was almost untouched. Between the two of them, they'd drained half the bottle of heath, though he himself had stuck fast to his 'one glass' rule. 

Emma was perfectly poised when she stood, however-- in spite of the alcohol and her frankly architectural heels. Lehnsherr told the waiter they'd take the bottle, while Emma counted out the currency for her half of the cheque. Erik might have taken her out to distract her from her bonding woes, but he'd never insult another alpha by trying to pay for their meal. The ideal of the self-possessed, self-sufficient alpha would always be cast in iron, though he privately wondered about the wisdom of parting with her directly outside the restaurant. She was still raw-- the show of fangs proved it-- and her body was still filtering out the intense cocktail of endorphins, oxytocin and dopamine from both the initial bonding and Shaw's…

Shuddering, Erik grabbed for his redingote and forced himself to finish the thought. Shaw's _heat_. It was not something discussed in polite society. Omegas typically presented in early adolescence, with regular periods of that enticing fertility used to justify their seclusion. They were nigh-permanently 'indisposed' which, Charles had once scathingly remarked, made it sound as though they all had some vague social disease. What omegas did in the mysterious kingdom of sexual flowering-- how they satisfied themselves, or what they thought of these changes-- was as alien as the dark sides of the moons. Xavier had made an oblique reference to the biological fact-- as opposed to the social consequences-- only once in their correspondence. Though carefully worded, Erik had never the less been able to detect the raw terror bleeding from that elegant pen, and felt a moment of true empathy. Romanticized though it might be, the uninhibited intimacy and trance-like state of corresponding _veritas_ rut struck fear in the core of his own well-ordered being. Seeing Emma now did nothing at all to dispel the notion.

 

Side by side, he and Emma strolled out down the restaurant's wide quartz stairs and out into the glittering, flower-rich City night. Even in the muted glow of the colored-lantern street lights, Emma was infused with her own dim luminescence. Each tiny crystal embedded in the tips of her faux-fur coat refracted little splinters of rainbow, and she walked with her own insular grace. Erik tried to imagine Shaw on her arm, playing the good little omega at some Atelier party or corporate function, and winced again. He snuck a somewhat guilty glance at her from the corner of his eye. If it weren't for the consequences to her (and the chidings about gender-cruelty from a suspiciously Xavier-esque internal voice) he really would have been delighted with Shaw's exposure in this whole debacle. 

Imagine, having passed as-- having _believed_ oneself to be-- a beta throughout an entire professional career! A beta, with all the freedoms and burdens that entailed; exclusion from inheritance and the necessity of work, the ability to vote, own property and manage one's own accounts. The option to patner within one's gender solely on the basis of choice and conscious preference. Not as privileged as alphas, who were held up as the virile founders and custodians of the race, but still possessed of numerous avenues for experience, exploration and ambition. 

Shaw certainly had plenty of the latter. He had stolen, blackmailed, and killed to fuel the meteoric rise of his research company, and he had no problem claiming the work far more brilliant scientists as his own. A darling of the conservatives in Parliament, Shaw would have had decades to become secure in his own identity as a member of the 'middle sex'. The preservers, laborers, teachers and practical managers; one-third of the politicians meant to calm the unfortunate alpha pissing-contests in the House of Lords and the House of Commons. 

Ah, but man builds, Erik's mother had often said, and G-d laughs. A part of Lehnsherr knows she would scold him for his own unholy mirth at Shaw's predicament, but he cannot help but appreciate the cosmic irony. He, of course, no longer attributes it to the delayed justice of any divinity. That would disappoint her, too. Edie Lehnsherr had been a dedicated monotheist, bonding within her own subculture, passing her beliefs down to her son. Worship of only one deity was rare in modern times, and often misunderstood, but Erik continued to hold onto his childhood identity and some of the traditions out of respect for her. Following her death-- and that of his omega father-- he'd been particularly fond of the 'vengeance is mine' theme. The Nameless G-d, however, seemed to have a broader concept of time and work a bit too slowly, so Erik more than intended to help the Creator out. 

 

If there was a G-d, he was definitely laughing at Sebastian Shaw. That plagiarizing charlatan had been engaged to speak at a symposium on Warp Core Physics and Engineering held, of course, at the preeminent City Engineering Atelier just a few weeks prior. Emma, though still a student, had been scheduled to lecture just after his presentation. Shaw's latest treatise had outlined a radical redesign of warp cores (work, Erik know for a fact had been stolen from his mother), along with some ethically objectionable speculations on organic interface. Lehnsherr himself had been incensed, both at Shaw's continued insult to Edie's memory and the grotesque warping of Xavier's nano-genetic theories. In many ways, Frost had been engaged as something of a rebuttal. Dr. Edie Lehnsherr's work was sound, but Shaw had added many impractical and frankly insulting embellishments, and placed a worrying emphasis on reigniting weapons development. Erik had been more than happy to help Emma poke holes in these additions. The two had spent more than a fortnight pouring over research, writing, editing, and drinking copious amounts of javabean elixir. While not physicists _per se_ , they were highly trained interstellar engineers and thus focused on the difficulty of building craft according to Shaw's method. Factors of unwieldiness, possible safety concerns regarding the warp-core, and the obvious opportunities for abuse from an organic perspective had all been points on Frost's agenda. 

It was, alas, a brilliant lecture that was never delivered.

  


* * * * * * * * *

  


There has been far too much excess today; in emotion, instinctive display, and even in finance. Erik therefore forces down his agitation and takes his usual route to Unity Station on foot. Using public transportation doesn't automatically help him understand the mercantile class, but it does help keep things in perspective.

As always, he sits in one of the 'Unbonded' cars with the other single alphas and betas. He disembarks on the other side of the bay, held up on the platform behind several couples from the front cars. He wonders, vaguely, what the omegas would say if he were to question them; about their current lives, their bonds, and any dreams they might have had in that ambiguous period before they Presented. If their bond is _veritas_ , were they seized by the joy and ecstatic union every story and textbook espouse? Emma's bond, and her constant struggle with the symptoms caused by her resentful omega, cannot be the norm. Yet Erik also knows that not every couple-- no matter what the nature of their bond-- can possibly be as happy or attuned to each other as his parents were.

As he makes his way up the steep street and then the winding jadeite footpath towards Signal Hill, Erik decides such questions would be useless. Perhaps omegas open up to one another during their endless rounds of visiting and other sedentary pursuits, but they'd inevitably dubious of such inquiries from an alpha. Most likely, they'd simply quote chapter and verse about what each sex is best suited for, how nature influences temperament, and how there is 'a place for everything, and everything in its place.'

 

Home, then. Or rather, his abode; a distinction Erik has never admitted to anyone save Charles, and even then not in so many words. Xavier seemed to understand intuitively, though. His response commiserating over the time a child's implicit sense of rightness and security lifts like a veil, leaving the nascent adult to make a home for their soul within the cage of the flesh. A clam burrowing back into the sand as the tide pulls out.

In deference to custom, Erik takes his boots off in the entrance hall of the fashionable townhouse, making vague noises of greeting in response to the landlord's welcome. His redingote goes in the cloak room along with the outwear of the household and that of the three other bachelors currently boarding. The other tenants are all much younger than Erik, enrolled in Atelier or University, and they treat the other alpha with an awed and sometimes puzzled deference. That such a rich, successful engineer and businessman should continue to live in such relative humility… but, ah! (Erik overhears occasionally) he _is_ still unbounded. At thirty-five, (and here, they nod to each other with a sagely sophomoric air) Lehnsherr must be quite the talk of all the noble twenty-somethings omegas, who have given up on a true bond and now hope for a more materially advantageous match. 

 

Maria, the beta landlord's partner-of-choice, appears briefly as Erik makes his way up the stairs. Betas cannot breed or marry, but they often have civil unions if they should find another of their kind with whom to share their lives. That idea of _choice_ , without imperative (spiritual or biological, as the argument may go) or social pressure, seems incredibly foreign to Erik. He's never seen any indication that Phil and Maria don't love each other; they fight ( _very_ tactfully), but they have a harmony some bonded pairs cannot claim.

"Supper in your room this evening?" Despite the inflection, Maria isn't actually putting a question to her tenant at all. Erik is a creature of habit, for which she sometimes gently teases him. She's been around Lehnsherr long enough, moreover, to read him superficially, and he can only imagine what he looks like this evening. A radioactive wraith, at the very least. If any of the graduate students have a notion to pester him over equations or assigned reading, Erik has no doubt Maria will run interference for him tonight. 

"Thank you, yes," he says, giving her a grateful if beleaguered little quirk of the lips. She glances briefly at the package as the alpha passes but says nothing, merely moving aside so he can bring it carefully upstairs. He's always appreciated her discretion, which is rivaled only by that of her partner.

 

Erik's chambers function as an outward expression of the alpha himself. Hardly an object exists within that does not have some function and, while some might argue that the tapestries on the wall are a frivolity, the thick hangings provide an insulation from the sounds of the household and provide a sense of remoteness Erik finds refreshing. The central room-- 'parlor', as it were-- looks more like a library. Lehnsherr uses it for the overflow of books, data crystals, and delicate projectors from his actual study, though he does have a few high-backed chairs in deference to his rare guests. Normally, Lehnsherr moves with much less hurry (but no less economy) within his own kingdom, perhaps indulging the primal alpha satisfaction in personal territory. Though his olfactory senses have diminished with the raw bulk of his anger, there is no escaping the fact Erik's chambers smell of clean linen and his own unique pheromones. 

Now, he crosses the room with quick strides, pausing only to stow his hat and valise in their appropriate places. The largest chamber is a combined study and bedroom, the mark of a night owl who separates from his projects only when forced by physical limitations. Those walls not lined with shelves of books are hung with woven arabesques, elegant but abstract. The box sits patiently-- compellingly-- on his desk while he shrugs off waistcoat and loosens his cravat, depositing cufflinks in their proper little dish. In naught but his shirt-sleeves and trousers (as 'casual' as he ever gets), Lehnsherr whirls back towards his work area as though he suspects the package of somehow laying in wait. He descends upon it much in the same manner, harshly removing any impediments as vindictively as possible without damaging the contents. Nothing, he has already noted, rattled throughout the journey home, and Erik soon sees that Charles carefully swathed the items in tissue paper. Atop this neat but obscured bulk is a single thick, ivory-colored envelope addressed to him. 

 

How many times has he seen his own name written in that slim but powerful script? How few such missives remain in his future? Indeed, this could be the last, depending on how Charles chooses to exit what little of the world his sex has access to. It's foolish, the way the sight of that handwriting has brightened days and banished moods-- a weakness Erik had once thought safe to indulge. With Charles, he had no need to worry about the intrigue and posturing that infiltrated almost every aspect of adult life.

Automatically, his gaze shifts from the letter itself to the small shrine tucked neatly but reverently in one corner of the room. His mother's portrait smiles back at him serenely from its place overlooking offerings of incense, dried flowers, and various charms engraved with the few surviving (and now mostly incomprehensible) Hebrew characters. There is a smaller holo of both his parents on their Bonding Day-- Jakob looking painfully young and still more than a little heat-flushed as he accepts Edie's collar. She always tried to give her omega what freedoms she could, saying that songbirds ('kestrels!'*, his father would protest good-naturedly) returned gratefully to shelter and reluctantly to cages.

 

Erik turns the envelope over to its seal displaying the knotted Xavier arms and thinks, not for the first time, that his own heart is hardly a tempting sanctuary. He feels a great deal more trepidation than he should, given that the worst news has already been delivered.

( _hasn't it? **hasn't** it?_ )

 

He breaks the waxen seal.

.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> ... I guess Erik is also answering to the name 'Cleopatra' now. X_x''
> 
> Meredith's Glossary and Bizarre World-Building Notes:  
> [+] _veritas_ \- the truth, or the Goddess of Truth, daughter of Saturn in the Roman Pantheon. She was also known as Aletheia to the Greeks. *winks*  
> [+] _Ilarches_ \- (greek) 'wing commander' or cavalry officer. Used in this case in place of 'wingman'.  
> [+] _Hypaspistes-_ (greek) 'shield-bearer', Macedonian infantry guard. In this fic, a person one considers an equal and comrade.  
>  [+]' _Man builds and G-d laughs_ '-- originally the Yiddish saying 'man tracht und gott lacht', which is more awesome because it rhymes.  
> [+] 'Republic of Texas'-- an homage to Fritz Leiber's There's a Spectre Haunting Texas, one of the many brilliant post-atomic (and post-JFK!) sci-fi stories that influenced Meredith as an impressionable child who should not have been into her grandfather's collection of pulp novels. ;-)  
> *Krestels- a small falcon; a predatory bird. A reference to [Little Birds](http://archiveofourown.org/works/316534) by **winterhill** , a brilliant birdie!AU that in no way makes me sniffle every time I read it. <3
> 
> As always, I can't thank you enough for taking the time to read my story. If I could trouble you just a little bit more for a quick comment or kudos, I'd be forever grateful. Even if it's just to tell me you completely predicted a very cranky Shaw, or what you think Charles really does smell like. ^_~


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So I'm actually posting two chapters at once this time, mostly because-- while they function as a whole-- it makes sense to separate Charles' letter out from the rest of the (rather lengthy) story. This may be the most I've ever posted at one time. I had no idea of letting it get this long, but Erik and his Erik!Logic had other ideas. 
> 
> Though, there are days one must wonder about Charles' logic as well….
> 
>  
> 
> Trigger Warnings: Not much for this chapter. Unequal gender rights, outmoded variations in the value of human life, and a glancing mention of non-consensual intercourse and marriage thereafter.

__  
1407 Graymalkin Ln  
City of New Kingsport  
West Casar Province  
30 Martius, 2776 PE 

_Erik Lehnsherr_  
1928 Rue d’Auseil  
City of Legions  
Stadtschloss Province 

_Erik, my dear friend,_

_I must apologize at once for both my presumption and my distance. It was my immediate wish to call you with my news as soon as I received it, but Raven prevailed upon me to wait. Perhaps that is best, for-- though I am entirely elated-- the occasion is of such import and far-reaching consequence that I cannot help but feel also a mixture of sorrow, anxiety, and loss. I understand these are my sister's predominant emotions, and have taken care to exercise sensitivity towards her perspective. Somehow, I must find a way to show her the depth of my gratitude for the life she has given me thus far, without making her feel as though I am somehow throwing it off or rushing to put a seal on this chapter of my existence. This opportunity requires a great deal of adjustment and sacrifice, but offers too many possibilities and rewards to shy away from now. By this time, Raven will have told you that I have been accepted to Athene's Basilica, and will take orders three weeks and two days from the date of this letter._

_Admittedly, I am having considerable difficulty composing this letter. Aside from expressing my excitement directly, I suppose a good deal of the attraction of calling lay in the sort of emotional and intellectual laziness it would have allowed for. You deserve better than that, my friend. I cannot fathom how you'll react to my news but, whatever your initial feeling, I hope you can be happy for me. The Basilica is its own miniature city-- I will be as free to move about as any alpha or beta in your metropolis, and will be able to collaborate with like-minded scholars in person. I will received my own wage, purchase my own food and sundries, and have access to some of the most advanced equipment in the Imperium._

_Doubtless, the first two items seem entirely mundane to you, but I have not ventured off the Xavier Estate for more than fifteen years. I know we have discussed this before, and it is not my intention to evoke pity or ignite political argument-- while such confinement is sanctioned by society, I know Raven would have let me leave at any time had I pressed the issue. I am culpable in my own way for having stayed. It is, as my old Nanny used to insist, simply not worth the risk. That being said, it can be very intellectually stifling, resulting in a sort of spiritual semi-coma. I imagine some omegas accept political marriages simply for the few additional freedoms the state can offer. That is, assuming they have an even mildly progressive alpha._

_I've been accused of socio-economic elitism by some of my Omega-rights colleagues, and I am self-aware enough to recognize that is true, if mostly unintentional. I will never understand the daily pressure and anxiety felt by those omegas whose families cannot afford the trappings of 'propriety'. The daily threat of a _veritas_ bond looming forever just around the corner, while you work in a society that will not recognize your contributions. Knowing that any alpha with a mind to could impinge upon your person, and the only thing the Law will do is force them to marry you. _

_Forgive the digression; I hardly need encouragement to pontificate, and you have been most patient in enduring my wilder remarks. It is merely to say that I know-- even within the greater context of society-- that I am a very lucky omega. Raven is the kindest sister and the most permissive guardian one such as I would wish for. She has always seen to it that I want for nothing; she has never discouraged me or made me feel unworthy. And I have had a dear friend in you. Erik, you have provided me with companionship, challenged my intellectual rigor, and offered encouragement when no one else in your station would. You have inspired me, and for that I will always be grateful._

_I am aware that I am trading the cage of this estate for the larger metaphorical terrarium the Basilica provides, but this is my only chance! Don't you see? We have often discussed the obstacles faced by the Imperium's colonization efforts. If only there were some way to allow omegas to contribute more fully, to push all sexes beyond the 'instinctual' pigeon holes we've become trapped in, our race could expand so much further! The universe is full of wonders, and perhaps even answers to the peculiarities of our current polymorphic evolution. Discovering how and why the sudden changes occurred will tell us so much about Old Earth. At Athene's Basilica, there are *fifteen* scientists working on a genome project in just such a vein! Can you imagine? It is my sincere hope to add my own humble efforts to the noble goal._

_I am going to miss you terribly, to be quite honest._ [and here, the ink is smudged and diluted, the 'st' in 'honest' blurred and bleeding from the introduction of some other liquid. _I always look forward to your letters like a child creeping about after midnight, trying to spy what Saturnalia presents might have been laid out. I suppose it is only the inevitable end that makes me so bold, but I care for you deeply. You have been the best friend anyone could wish for, and I am proud to know you. The contributions you've made (and will continue to make, I'm sure) to star-faring cannot be understated, and I wish you every possible success. I know there is pain in your past-- I so want you to find peace, happiness and healing in whatever form suits you best. You deserve all of that, and so much more._

_There is no doubt in my mind that, in some other and more fortunate life, we could have been marvelous partners, accomplishing great things together. At this juncture, I can only hope that my work at the Basilica will result in contributions to your field. As I'm sure you know, cloisters regularly publish studies in many scientific journals though, of course, no personal names are attached._

_This is a terrifying choice to make. Yet I feel I must do this in order to have any sort of truly fulfilling life and, perhaps, even find some measure of happiness. Which brings me to my presumption: along with this letter, Raven will have given you a package. It is a gift, but please do not feel any pressure to accept. I know it's somewhat inappropriate, and perhaps vain of me, to leave something with you in the outside world. I hope you'll allow this, though. The first item is something I found in the course of corresponding with several very dedicated antiquarians-- in particular, a rather eccentric beta hermit in the North. I wasn't sure I could convince him to part with it, but as soon as I heard of it I knew it ought to be yours._

_The second item isn't much, but I am afraid I must have *something* to keep my hands busy while entertaining the omegas of Raven's business associates, or the young omegas of the estate come to call. It's not the best, I suppose-- my tutor was forever after me for stitching too tightly. All my fertility symbols were always lopsided, too. Fear not! I won't foist any of that tripe upon you. Instead, I took the design from that truly wonderful plate in Kesserich's Constellations of Earth That Was. _

_If you are amenable, I will continue to write to you as long as I am able, and will call you the evening before I depart. (Raven has hired a touring transport for my journey, so I can see as much as possible of the landscapes we traverse. She is too good to me.) I understand, of course, that there exist many reasons why you might not wish to correspond after this. I will respect whatever decision you make. I am well aware that my own choice is extreme, but I cannot let this chance slip away. I hope you can be happy for me, my dear _hypaspistes_._

_In all sincerity, your friend,  
Charles Francis Xavier_

__  
._ _

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Meredith's Glossary and Bizarre World-Building Notes:  
> [+] _veritas_ \- the truth, or the Goddess of Truth, daughter of Saturn in the Roman Pantheon.   
> [+] _Hypaspistes-_ (greek) 'shield-bearer', Macedonian infantry guard. In this fic, a person one considers an equal and comrade.
> 
>  
> 
> The next part will be up shortly! I cannot tell you how much I appreciate you taking the time to read my story, and bearing with me despite my grindingly slow posting schedule. <3


	4. Chapter 4

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is where things get a bit long-winded. Hopefully it isn't bad but, after two or three rewrites, I'm afraid its just time to damn the torpedoes. Besides, he can deny it all he likes but, with a magenta cape and a cavalry helmet, I think it's clear to all that Erik is a Serious Drama Queen. ^_~
> 
>  
> 
>  **Trigger Warnings for this chapter:** Polymorphic gender-bias equivalent to historical examples of misogyny, institutionalized child cruelty, totalitarian educational practices, internalized 'gender' stereotypes, fanciful religious interpretations, depiction of grief and associated depression. And one massively unreliable narrator.  
>  I also mention a line from the _Tanakh_ /Bible; it is in no way my intention to insult or impinge upon anyone's religion, or foist beliefs on anyone else. You can scroll down to the end notes if you need specifics before you read. :-)

Upon finishing the letter, Erik is startled to find himself sitting propped rather heavily against the edge of his cherrywood desk, almost as a figure in some dramatic etching. It is a position that implies the receipt of some shock so great it weighs the head down into empty and despairing palms-- all quick, decisive lines on the part of the artist. An illogical reaction, and surely not one representative of his emotions-- for the letter contains no truly new information, and he is too busy gripping the epistle with ginger fingertips to mirror such literary theatrics. At least his rebellious hands have not crumpled the letter. Rather, his fingers are nearly numb from pinching the rich paper and have left only the tiniest impressions, as swiftly fading points of pressure on pale skin. The sight of his own name-- and the titles of friendship that follow-- in Charles' hand appear stark blue-black ink on ivory weave.

_('My dear friend…'; probably the most affection any two alphas-- two *equals*-- would admit to one another in life. That and the occasional ' **beloved** ' _hypaspistes _, reserved for those tombs erected to commemorate the closest of fallen comrades, for though the cost in sorrow is heavy there is still some safety in confining admission of love to the dead alone.)_

The endearments feel as inescapable as a brand, yet inherently lunatic as any lost language from Old Earth. Bleakly, Erik looks up from the page, lungs supporting only the shallow breaths of the vanquished party in a round of fisticuffs. 

 

Objectively, it must have taken him little time to read the letter. The ornate clock which hangs between the chamber's two windows continues circulating drops of liquid mercury-- little beads of time-- through the scrolling vacuum tubes. The firm iron hands and sensitive release mechanisms are far more even and dependable than any organic rhythm. Beyond the loosely draped curtains, the spring evening is bleeding into vibrant sunset and, though the panes are closed, Lehnsherr can still hear the boom of laughter as it echoes from the street. Another moment and he can make out the voice of Sam Wilson, one of the younger alpha boarders, energetically announcing himself out on the front steps. The gregarious, arrogant buck must have passed his final flight test. Erik registers these sounds, and the indistinct trickle of words that follow, very oddly indeed. They seem quite far away; he is a man alone on a vast arctic plain and anything from beyond its endless waste is only a snatch from some other world, carried by devious and irksome winds. 

He'd shake his head at himself, but the uncharacteristic image only gains potency, making his chambers into some alien white contrivance, a forgery carved of snow. In another moment, he has a better hold on his mental faculties, though his body insists he must either drop the letter as if burned, or tear it to pieces. Erik allows the papers to fall and scatter on the chamber's thick, dark rug. There, they too look like offensively regulated snowflakes. 

 

Florid impressions or no, Lehnsherr should not find such wintery associations threatening or dismal. His is a child of the North, where the estate of his mother's family was established in the early days of colonization, before even the dazzling City had pretenses with which to adorn itself. Perhaps its unsurprising from an alpha, but Erik has a deep sense of history and heritage-- familial and of his people as a whole. At the same time, he is aware of just how fluid the seemingly obdurate monuments of the past can be. There are other monotheists in the Imperium; worshipers of the Solar Lamb, for example, but their beliefs have been contracted down from many different sects. It is said, even by members of that fold, that there was once a time when the authority of the Hierophant lacked universal acknowledgement, and that the position was open to male alphas alone. 

The seat of the Lehnsherr clan is impressive, its foundations a celebration of survival and somewhat defiant individuality. It is all the more entrancing and strange because many of Erik's ancestors were themselves dedicated antiquarians. It's the sort of place Charles would love-- as historic as his own manor, but unpolluted by fascicle attempts (particularly on the part of Lady Sharon's first omega, Kurt) to keep up with City fashion or add luxuries in total disregard of aesthetics. 

Erik has, in fact, sent Charles holo-stills of his childhood home, receiving in return enthusiastic ramblings and inquiries regarding the mosaics, subterranean bath, and the insularium which had been such a favorite of Lehnsherr's father. These stills, however, were all very much out of date-- the last time Erik set foot on those grounds was just after finishing graduate studies at Atelier. A freshly minted interstellar engineer, already preparing to wade ruthlessly into the teeming jungle of City industry with one trusted _hypaspistes_ at his side in Emma, and another precious shield-bearer to advise him from afar. 

 

In the weeks after Saturnalia, that had been. While most of the City blearily recovered from one festival and began its headlong dive into New Year's preparations, Lehnsherr himself had undertaken a solitary pilgrimage. The great ebony rail train had cut like a dagger, or some sleek panting beast, through the wind-swept moors of marble snow. Everywhere there had rested the albino cloak of the North, which each year yielded sylvan brilliance for scarcely two months. Having told no one of his plans-- not even Charles-- Erik had also kept to himself amongst the still-festive passengers. Instead, he'd stared out at the fine fresh powder, which glittered only with starlights and the occasional canary-colored glow of a distant, lighted dwelling. His people still kept the millennia-old traditional calendar as well as that of the Imperium, and Lehnsherr had been secretly grateful that the Eight Nights had fallen before the common winter holidays that year. A small mercy. The poignant landscapes did enough to foster the notion that the past was coming to lay flush with the present-- perhaps to the point of allowing actual passage. The shine-orbs, the candles, and sugary smell of _sufganiyot_ would have been too much for the prodigal to bear.

As it is, Erik remembers experiencing both a melancholy balm and a strong resurgence of grief as he walked the corridors of his childhood home. So often, the explosion and his parents' subsequent deaths seemed like a literal wall of fire between himself and the sense of belonging he knew as a small boy. Shaw, greedy and eager to claim innovations not his own, had razed all of that to the ground. Erik had been left only with rage and dreams of vengeance, stewing in the kingdom of austere barracks and corporal punishment which composed every alpha boarding school. 

The thought of Shaw back in the City, enduring the festive wave of society galas on Emma's arm was as ironic as it was unpalatable. More than a year after bonding, Erik's nemesis lived in virtual ignominy-- put at nervous distance by some former associates and subjected to outright scorn by others. Shaw's only hobby, aside from hiding in the home-made lab Emma had purchased in an attempt to appease him, was torturing that same alpha and bond mate in a cyclical pattern of passive disdain and intimate, almost fawning heats. The details of the latter were, mercifully, kept brief both by Emma's natural disposition and general social standards. Erik shuddered to think, and always grew furious shortly thereafter. Frost hardly deserved such treatment, which was only the least fatal in a long list of crimes Sebastian Shaw had perpetrated against those Erik loved. Though he'd stood as Emma's _hypaspistes_ , Lehnsherr still longed to plunge his ancestral _misericorde_ through her bastard mate's malicious and calculating brain. With the illogical faith of a zealot, he still firmly planned to do so, though a solution for mitigating the consequences to Frost (and her obligation to avenge her omega in return) had yet to present itself. 

Upon reaching Eisenhardt Demesne, he'd taken an initial turn about the great house almost as a sleep-walker, navigating around-- and very nearly responding to-- phantoms only he could see. Having slept not at all, it appeared then very sensible to visit the dead who had arranged so many powerful memories as a welcoming party. In the City, they left flowers or food for the dead, or burned letters with incense as a one-way signal into that place beyond the veil. Erik had brought with him on his journey two large slabs of moonstone, and the tools with which he would personally attend to his parents' grave. Reverently, he'd polished the great chalcedony and lapis tomb in which Mama lay, fingers intertwined with those of her omega _veritas_. 

Vater had survived the initial explosion at Mama's lab, only to to face an arguably far more agonizing death himself-- that of a broken bond. A slow end, by comparison, but it had delivered Jakob to his alpha's side in less than a week. The mausoleum had been closed following the alpha's interment, but left unsealed in anticipation; only when her omega last lay with Edie, in death as he had in life, had the tomb been closed for good. 

 

During that visit

_(and it seems to him now that he was so young and untried, though of course he had been blinded by the bravado imbued in every university buck)_

Erik had carved those raw moonstone blocks into a pair of _kerubihm_ to guard his parents' catafalque. Such work always had a meditative aspect for him, but that had seemed almost a fugue, his mind returning again and again to one thought. Embalming was not the way of his people and, in defiance of general convention and his own young age, Lehnsherr had insisted on attending both interments. Even through the burial shroud-- so like a spider's web-- the boy had been able to see the damage only a few days had wrought upon Mama's beauty, though the cold had contributed its own unique alterations. Oh, the thinness of her hand as the Rabbi gently moved it to cradle that of the fresh omega corpse! As the grown Lehnsherr chiseled away, forming the serpent's tails and feathery wings of the new guardians, he'd wondered if his parents hadn't at last reached some alignment in their mutual decay.  
Some coffers, some doors, were never meant to be opened again.

 

Presently, Erik finds himself staring blankly at the still-unpacked box on his desk, and shudders. Thin tissue paper

_(shroud like, opaque as a century's veil of dust)_

is all that obscures the sight of Charles' mysterious gifts. A bold breach of custom, like a bizarre behest in a will. The morbidity strikes Lehnsherr just as it had a the foot of his parents' tomb-- as offensive self-pity. This is a choice Charles has made, a sword swaying above Erik's head since the first set of letters they exchanged. Bemoaning it with morose sentimentality will not take back the years of forms, dissertations, and committee reviews Xavier has navigated to reach the gates of his vaunted Bassilica. Just as all the tears and agonized rumination in the world could not breathe life back into the shells of his mother and father. 

Back then, _kerubihm_ finished but unplaced, Erik had fled the Lehnsherr necropolis, berating himself with each step. Eyes hard (but not, alas, entirely free of unspilled tears), he had toured the mansion again, this time taking holo-stills of architectural elements with all the detachment of a man visiting a foreign coliseum. As night closed about the house, he'd lit every hearth and wired flambeaux in the East Wing, playing old favorites at loud volume on the crystal music system. Uncertain as to whether he longed or dreaded to further inspire his parents' ghosts, he'd spent the small dark hours writing to Charles, confining the letter to purely academic matters. In the morning, he had hired a discrete and trustworthy maintenance service and-- with instructions to place the new sculptures appropriately-- shut the place up, quitting Eisenhardt Demesne entirely. 

With so little rest during his stay, it was not surprising that he'd slept soundly on the returning train, the sub-sonic hum of magnetic rails as soothing as the sound of a subterranean spring. At Unity Station, he disembarked to find the City as fresh and buttoned up as it could be ever, ready for the post-holiday return to swift business and shiftier politics. It had seemed as though the entire experience-- in a few hours and a few hundred thousand miles-- become entirely parenthetical, divorced from Erik Lehnsherr as he had constructed himself.

By the time he'd begun to climb the terraces to Signal Hill, damp with the fingers of twilight, there seemed little to argue the veracity of the trip at all. Only the stills provided physical evidence, and it was to be two years before his friendship with Charles deepened to a level Erik felt would excuse the lack of tact in sending them to Xavier. The omega scholar remains the only person Erik has ever shown them to. Charles' response had been a mixture of enthusiastic interest and subtextual compassion; a delicate balance which Lehnsherr still doubts anyone else could achieve. No matter the platitudes on the lips of pious sages or well-meaning omega matrons; there will never be a way to put the past-- and the dead one carries with them-- to peace. Thankfully, Charles assumed no such thing, though it has always been evident that much of the closeness and rapport in Erik's family mystifies the scholar. For all their differences in temperament and experience, that sharing and commiseration had been strangely cathartic for the alpha-- both the grown man and the still-grieving child inside. With Xavier's confidence, Erik felt as though he could shore up sensible defenses against the tumultuous emotions that had driven him-- with far more success than any physical enemy-- from his old home. The past was once more  
_(sealed, as a tomb, as…)_  
in its proper temporal place. There was a goal for justice in the future, and rationality once more reigned supreme. 

 

Raking a hand through his already disheveled hair, Erik wonders where that sensible man is now. He's always prided himself on planning, strategy, and logic. Many an employee has added the qualifier 'ruthlessly' to that last one, in a mixture of annoyance and awe. They would be surprised-- though no more than he!-- to discover the wealth of wishes, intentions even, washed ashore in this emotional maelstrom. 

They are not impulses of the moment, for they arrive fully formed, having grown somewhere in Erik's under-mind, without his leave. Like his parents' tomb, such unconscious depths have been sealed away by skillful pragmatism, the trade of I-shall-not-be-disappointed learned by orphans and exiles such as he. Survivors, cauterizing wounds with plans for vengeance, numbing their flesh even as they armor themselves for the endless march of living. 

 

Outside, the fading light brings further clamor on the portico. Sam and what sounds like at least half a dozen of his friends are debating-- loudly, in the gathering humidity of the evening-- which of the district taverns would best suit their celebrations, or if they should venture across the bridge to the wilder environs near the Temple of Bacchus. Someone suggests a boudoir stage, where betas with less… classical theatrical training moan and pant on stage in carefully choreographed imitations of omega heat. This inspires a round of raucous laughter and, from the steady diminishment of sound, it must have universal appeal. If the bucks had lingered any longer, Phil would likely have shooed them off with his broom, before a Monitor came by with more serious citations. But no, it is clear now that they are going, the tide of their merry-making rushing them headlong into the depths of the night. 

Lehnsherr himself has attended one or two of those lascivious pantomimes, bowing only slightly to the necessary social 'networking' available in those alpha dens. The longer he corresponded with Charles, the more such venues lost their already flimsy appeal. He felt self-conscious; always wondering what his friend would think. Knowing the scholar's words would take on a tolerant but faintly condescending syntax. The mystery of omegas fully fetishized, constructions catering to young alphas whose only real contact with the opposite sex would have been a parent or sibling. How strange that veiled world of intoxicating pheromones and enthralled emotions seemed to alphas on the cusp of their own hormonal maturation. Beneath all of that there was-- and is-- an icy film of terror, asphyxiating due to the loss of control. Erik remembers the headiness of his Atelier days, how each alpha carried themselves with confidence and thinly veiled contempt for authority, as if no one had ever set out to conquer the world quite the way _they_ would. For all their enticing qualities, omegas could appear alien, vaguely threatening in their perceived sensuality. They still do, if Erik is brutally honest-- for it seems now that he has never truly thought of Charles as an omega in any tangible sense.  
Any artist working in metal had to get burned at some point, he remembers his father saying-- the danger has to be made manifest. There's a difference between knowing the iron is hot and _believing_ it.

 

Because he will not tolerate even an internalized assault on his personal honor, Erik reaches for the box without allowing himself another thought. The dye is cast now, and what in all the Imperium have his melancholy meanderings accomplished? Naught, for there is naught to be done. The only aspect he has control over now is how he choses to comport himself going forward. It-- like so many other obstacles he has encountered in adult life-- is merely an extension of the rigged fights at alpha boarding school, which had been designed only for philosophical 'triumph'. Otherwise, they were no-win scenarios, the prospect of which sank into each participants heart like the weight of a collapsing glacier. The headmaster-- Citizen Admiral Stryker, retired-- had designed them that way, soundly thrashing both winner and loser at the conclusion of each match. The punishment was exactingly equal. First, both victor and vanquished beaten with a switch they had to cut themselves and then with Stryker's sturdy ironwood cane, all in full view of their peers. The old alpha had said he wanted success itself to be the only reward, so that fights would not be won by cowards only motivated by a desire to save their own skins.  
Lehnsherr is not now-- nor will he ever allow himself to be-- a coward. 

As promised, the frothy packing tissue yields up first a bound book, one which Erik recognizes as exceptional even at first glance. The tome is cased in the faux-leather so briefly used by numerous groups of refugees and colonists in the single century prior to the Imperium. This alone makes the volume worth a small fortune, but it is only the most obvious sign of its importance. Embossed in long-worn filigree on the cover and spine is the title, _Fragmentary Translations and Commentary on the Book of Re'ut_ , ascribed to Rabbi Hadassah Lieber. 

Sure enough, upon opening to a random page, Lehnsherr finds each right leaf printed with Hebrew characters (of which he recognizes only a few), while the left ones contain text in Imperium Standard. The translation is indeed sporadic, and understandably so; no complete copy of any Hebrew text exists in the present day. The few holy books which did survive the massive cultural devastation of the Great Burn are only bits and pieces-- half-decayed papers or postwar parchment, not to mention data devices with corrupted lines of code and odd, defaulting characters. 

This particular book is well known for being the most intact within his particular culture, but Erik has never seen it presented in anything other than the common tongue, much less actually _bound_ in such a vintage manner. The story itself has always confused scholars, who have never been able to ascertain exactly how the Hebrew language indicated primary gender. Among the remnants of Earth's old tongues, German is perhaps the easiest to discern, since 'der', 'die', and 'das' obviously represented alpha, omega, and neuter (or, in the case of human beings, beta). Gender specificity for both primary and secondary characteristics seems to have been rare in Japanese, which has led many a historian to theorize that the society suffered a disproportionate population of betas. Examples of Chinese or English texts are almost nonexistent, for reasons as varied as the fragments themselves. Certainly, the scientists who set out to rebuild society were quick to translate the most vital of those works, all of which exist today in perfect, normalized translations. What happened to the originals is a subject of rigorous-- and carefully monitored-- debate. 

Linguistic vagaries aside, the  Book of Re'ut's subject is clear. It is an affirmation of, and ode of praise for, one omega's devotion to her alpha, Noomi. _"Entreat me not to leave thee, and to return from following after thee; for whither thou goest, I will go"_ ; words inscribed within the cuff and collar of Lehnsherr's own parents, where they would rest as a reminder against the skin. 

 

A harsh bark of laughter breaks the morbid silence of his chambers, startling Erik even though he is well aware the sound is his alone. It is a physical manifestation, as well as an auditory one, experienced as the scrape of a scimitar against the back of his throat. Stifling it immediately, the alpha tells himself the black mirth is unkind, disregarding the notion that allowing it to continue would court an escalation to screams. 

Charles  
( _is leaving him, is going where Erik cannot follow_ )  
would be hurt, if he knew. The omega's sole motivation in obtaining the book was obviously thoughtfulness-- an appreciation of Lehnsherr's culture as well as the memory of his parents.  
There is no message of bleak irony to be read therein. 

 

Setting the tome carefully aside on the desk, Erik finds the second layer of wrapping conceals plush folds of the deepest midnight blue. An eiderdown quilt, the kind many omegas have raised to a domestic art. Unseen and hardly sensed by the alpha himself, a tender smile plays about his lips. The fabric is beautiful and the piece is serviceably made, but it is not the work of the adept, angelic homemaker so often portrayed in omegan scrolls and advice columns. He can imagine Charles frowning at it direly, sewing away in service of geometry rather than flowing 'art', all while struggling to endure the idle gossip and chit-chat of those dinner parties somehow considered so vital to business and political networking. 

As promised, it is devoid of the ubiquitous acorn, flower, and serpent fertility symbols which are the usual recourse for embroidery. Instead, Xavier has spread upon his canvas a sea of stars in gold, pearlescent, and silver thread. Erik's own father was marvelously accomplished in both sewing and needlework, often adding embellishments to his alpha's cloaks and evening wear only to pretend ignorance later. In this way, Lehnsherr recognizes that his friend was being honest. Xavier has no particular talent, though he has-- by unwilling overexposure, no doubt-- honed a skill in execution. Embroidery is one of the few acceptable pastimes for upper-class omegas; Charles would take up his hoop simply to busy his hands in situations where books and equipment would be deemed unseemly. 

The scholar will shortly be beyond the need for such distractions, Erik muses dully-- and then pushes the thought away. It's easier to do with the soft material in his hands, which seems to soak up his rage and frustration rather than inspire physical demonstrations of such. The quilt is beautiful, more than the sum of its parts, and Xavier has carefully graced it with the alpha's favorite illustrations from Kesserich's Constellations of Earth That Was. The charioteer, the archer; the great slayer Perseus, with the alpha Queen Cassiopeia and her mate, Andromeda, nearby. This coverlet has spent hours in Charles' lap as he labored over it; a creation with Lehnsherr alone in mind.

 

Without conscious thought, Erik buries his face in the soft fabric, losing several long moments to a sense of peace and succor which conquers him utterly. This action, and the absorption in the sensations it inspires, stems from the most instinctive level of his being. The impulse to call out when a familiar voice is heard, to favor loved ones with a smile, to fear the dark or rush to aid when shouts occur; it is the essence of all these things and cannot be eradicated-- only concealed. It will be several more weeks before he realizes how lucky he is, or how cunning the hand (indeed, _whose hand_?) which wrought the alpha olfactory interface. Cognitive dissonance is the only possible result, for his body knows what comparatively little of the omega's

( _his_ Omega)

scent imbued in the quilt cannot possibly support a _veritas_ rut. He is quite fortunate in this way, yet utterly damned in another: a lesser alpha might not have been able to detect the intoxicating cocktail but, while his intelligent faculties have always feared the trancelike euphoria of bonding, the bloodhound within him has found at last its master's hand. 

 

The fugue is perfect. When he raises his head, he has no time to wonder how he's come to grasp the crystal handset, much less enter the coordinates for Graymalkin Manor. The three tone chime is sounding; the call is being accepted, and he is on the spot. 

"You've reached the Xavier Estate," a low, gravely male voice states, formality not quite masking the vague working-class accent. Lehnsherr recognizes it with something of an inward groan. Logan-- one of the household beta staff. Officially, the long-time groomsman and gamekeeper, he tends also to function as Charles' bemused chaperone. "How may I direct your call?" The alpha mutes the handset briefly, swallowing with an audible click, fearing his voice may sound as dry as his mouth. 

"Alpha Citizen Lehnsherr," Erik says, though his own coordinates and security 'handshake' would display for the closed system he's connecting to. After some prodding-- a joint tag-team consisting of Erik, Charles, and the occasional contribution from Emma-- Raven has significantly upgraded the firewalls and encryptions for the Estate domain. It's still not quite to the level of Erik's own elaborate precautions, but it will easily withstand most competitor's attempts at industrial espionage and personal blackmail. 

"May I please speak with _Har'_ Xavier?" This is an atypical breach of protocol, even within the unusual friendship itself. Lehnsherr is almost always scrupulous about asking for Raven, from whom he then requests permission to speak to Charles-- though such ritual annoys the scholar to no end. Tonight, Erik's normally limited patience for these social acrobatics has vanished completely. He wants to hear Charles' voice, as soon as possible; for is not the omega who has taken such drastic action obviously the captain of his own destiny? Clearly, Xavier will decide when and to whom he speaks.

There's an almost audible pause from Logan, but Lehnsherr is quickly treated to the lower trill of his signal switching over the the laboratory transmitter. It rings for some time, but that is not off-putting. Only the Nameless G-d knows what chemicals or voluminous research Charles is up to his elbows in. 

 

As he waits, Erik's gaze drifts to the window-- outside, night has settled the City fully against her breast. The lights from Signal Hill cast out their brilliance, reflecting in the still mirror of the quay and throwing a diffuse glow up to the low-hanging amethyst clouds. The alpha's own breathing sounds claustrophobic as it echoes in the receiver, the fine lacquer casing of which has warmed to match his clammy cheek. The air, too, is still and close. He can see, on the far horizon, the first of the City's many spring storms gathering its dark bulk for the attack. 

"Erik?" there's the faintest questioning inflection in the tone, as if Charles has just woken and seeks belief rather confirmation. 

_'I don't know,'_ Lehnsherr thinks, suddenly asking himself the same question. _'It seems I have not known myself all this while.'_ And then, registering the slight catch in Xavier's exhalation, he manages, "Yes."

_('Charles,' he is foolish enough to think, and wise enough to save himself from uttering, 'Charles, I could not give you up so easily-- not for sanity or pride, and certainly not over disapproval.')_

The omega's pleased chuckle confirms Lehnsherr's suspicions. Charles, as he hinted in his letter, genuinely believes he might have pushed the delicate, unintentionally politicized boundaries of their friendship too far. Such censure could never dissuade the scholar-- dear, inspired, _arrogant_ creature!-- but it would have grieved him. Even without overestimating his own importance, Erik knows it would have wounded the gentle intellectual far more than Xavier would ever allow to show.

"Yes," Erik confirms again, unnecessarily. He is gratified to have pleased Charles, to have lived up to the all-too-generous impression the omega has formed of his friend. So easy, and yet still such toil. 

"I'm so glad you called." Words the younger man has spoken before, of course; the free-flowing, rote pleasantries involved in any civilized conversation. Yet the welcoming timbre renders them exotic, and Erik doesn't believe himself creative enough to fabricate that impression from whole cloth. 

Words flow forth, along with his breath-- neither of which he had realized he was holding. "Of course, Charles, I _had_ to-"

 

The statement hangs awkwardly, but to continue would be an equal blunder. Lehnsherr curses his own tongue-- it seems everything about his form and being are in conspiracy against him today. What in all the Imperium can he possibly say? 'There's so little time' is true, but it implies onus on Charles' part and would dampen the scholar's enthusiasm. Besides, on-planet delivery of scrolls and letters is quite brisk, which makes the sentiment reek of desperation from Erik's end. He should have taken a moment to sit down and methodically compose a message for the public queue-- that would have been instantaneous, therefore sparing Charles any suspense. But the missive would, by necessity, go to Raven first; omegas are not permitted on the Imperium network. 

"Thank you," Xavier says, apparently responding to whatever meaning he perceives in the garbled words. 

"Your acceptance to Athene's Basilica," the alpha persists, having never been one to allow the unforeseen to impact bull-headed execution of a particular plan. All the same, he cannot bring himself to actually say 'congratulations'. "To receive Orders at all, let alone at your age-- you must be thrilled."

"Oh, yes!" comes the prompt agreement. Erik can easily imagine a similar sound inspiring the pained, sad look on Raven's face this morning, and he is suddenly very glad he does not keep a mirror in his bedchamber. As if he can sense such wounding, Charles adds more softly, "It's sinking in now, of course. I've dreamt of leaving the Estate almost from the first night after I Presented, yet the thought of trespassing-- let alone never returning!-- seems nerve-wracking and impossible. I can only think of one thing in life I have feared and wanted more. Isn't that strange?"

 

Erik, as he existed when he rose from bed this morning, would easily have been able to decisively answer that question, rhetorical thought it may be. Now, there are no such assured, half-placating words at his disposal. Instead, he says very seriously, "I don't think so. Sometimes, the very importance of something-- it's emotional significance or potential as a catalyst for change-- can be so overwhelming that even reaching for it feels like you're making yourself unbearably vulnerable. Too much of a risk, too much possibility for…"

"Disappointment," Charles finishes. "You're right. I should have known you'd understand." The omega laughs, a trifle nervously, and Erik laughs too. Not _at_ his friend, but at the notion he'd find Xavier's choice truly fathomable in the slightest. He has never found another person's emotions more wholly incomprehensible in his life-- a fact which stems only partially from his frequent lack of investment in those around him. He could be no more surprised if he saw Emma weeping, or witnessed his mother strike his father (the latter of which is, among his people, a nearly unforgivable sin). He can try to sympathize, empathize, _rationalize_ until the stars fall from the heavens, but-- as with all sentient beings-- a dark voice continues to whisper, ' _I want what's best for you, but what about **me** …?_'

_'Please reconsider, Charles,'_ the alpha wants to say. The impulse is so profound it feels like a sort of viscous parasite in his throat. It isn't simply an unfair request, it is also unforgivably disrespectful. Whatever basis his subconscious *thinks* it has for this selfishness, the empirical fact remains that Lehnsherr has nothing even approaching the right to hold his friend back. As an alpha, Erik has never been caged, condescended to, or barred from exercising his will. Any attempt to wield emotional leverage would likely only serve to cast him in the same light as those who have blocked, disapproved of, or abandoned Xavier in the past. 

 

Charles is no stranger to familial machinations and loss, and Erik will not betray what they've shared by pretending ignorance now. Like Lehnsherr, much of the scholar's personal history is public knowledge, due both to the standing of his family and the unusual circumstances of his childhood. City society has not yet forgotten Sharon Xavier, who-- in one of those rare biological and legal flukes-- set aside her political marriage for a spontaneous _veritas_ bond. Such instances were rare, and the only permissible basis for divorce or polygamy, of which she had chosen the latter. The scientific journals had been scandalized as well-- for Brian Gilcrist was an unpopular and bookish omega whose involvement with fringe gender-rights groups had shamed his own family. Such a disappointment, everyone agreed, when an already inconvenient bond yielded a child who could not inherit! The added complexities of the first mate, Kurt Marko, and his tenacious hold on the family fortunes via Raven, had provided the gossip scrolls with fresh and titillating fodder for the next twenty years. By the time Marko's alpha daughter became a graduate at the Engineering Atelier, she was already the object of much speculation, and socially isolated enough that Charles had-- with uncharacteristic timidity-- asked Lehnsherr if he might at least show her around campus. 

Erik more than understood the desire to protect one's few remaining loved ones and companions, and he still does. He will have to choke down these sentiments-- he knows too well where his friend's scars lie to consider doing otherwise. To give them voice would be incendiary, even given Xavier's usual patient temperament. Lehnsherr doesn't want to fight.

_(Oh, Nameless G-d, do not let them fight if they have so little time left!)_

He has never exercised this much restraint in his life.

 

With the deft touch of a guilty man, he nudges the conversations away from any understanding, or lack thereof. "This translation-- Charles, it's amazing." He fingers the tome with cautious admiration. "The condition is remarkable, especially considering the binding."

"The faux-leather is quite marvelous, isn't it?" Xavier agrees, unconsciously slipping into an intellectual enthusiasm that outshines many a scientist in Lehnsherr's employ. "If you look at the title leaf, you can see they printed it themselves at the settlement in Beth Miqlat."

Though his friend cannot see it, Erik's eyebrows fly up in surprise as he finds this is true. No wonder the paper is of such thick, fine quality, despite the antique colonial period. Many early settlers had brought with them 'printing press' technology capable of creating objects from raw organic or inorganic material, and were therefore able to establish outposts that were remarkably self-sufficient. Such devices -- or so Erik remembers from long, hot afternoons of history drills-- became impossible to obtain once the Imperium took over guardianship and regulation of those tools considered unsafe in the hands of the citizenry. 

"A magnificent find," he praises, smiling. The tome in his hands has acquired new weight, a faint whiff of the prohibited that makes him feel as though he and Charles are in collusion. The omega has taken a risk-- a slight one, yes; a matter of a fine and a lingering notation in his Imperium file, but a risk all the same-- to obtain this. From anyone else, the value of the object and the possibility of censure would cause Lehnsherr to refuse the gift. Even polite graces indicate the need for token protests, the ever-popular 'it's too much', but Erik will not insults this sign of trust. 

 

Absurdly, it makes him think of his school days, when small bands of alphas would set out to prove their _hypaspistes_ devotion by making stealthy expeditions into the forbidden Temple Districts. The goal laid not only the trespass itself, but in obtaining some token that would serve as testament to their daring. Merchants of all kinds set their wares out before the 'Alphas Only' entrances to the tri-ed temples, or in the inner sanctums of alpha gods like Aries and Artemis. Unguents and tinctures for increased virility or more potent seed; toys to stave off an omega's pleasure, lengthening heat until both parties' satisfaction became explosive; bindings, exotic collars, and furniture suited to the dedicated attention omegas needed at the height of their cycle. The boudoir stages clustered on the outskirts, and upper-form alphas would up the ante by pressing one another with dares to infiltrate despite being underage. Every street was crowed with storefronts,; there were shops catering to the beauty and comfort of omegas, services forecasting the destinies of children in the womb, and bookshops which sold folios or woodcuts considered a bit too intimate to make it past communications censors. 

Such antics were expected on the part of young alphas, so that the collection of such items was well known but deliberately ignored by school administrators. They only cared if you couldn't pull it off, or-- as in Erik and Emma's case-- you tended not to participate. He'd held onto too many cultural prohibitions, despite having mislaid his belief in the actual Nameless G-d, to find the circulating contraband interesting as anything other than a curiosity. At any rate, the only comrade he would have trusted for such scouting would have been Emma, who avoided such things for her own reasons. 

 

Sharing this illicit excitement with Charles makes up for that a bit, odd though it may seem. Certainly, the omega himself would likely find the comparison objectionable-- but then, Xavier had a sibling to plan capers with, which might be a more acceptable analogy. Playfully, Erik asks, "However did you convince someone to part with this?"

"Several referrals and months of correspondence, I must confess," Charles says confidingly, and proceeds to regale Lehnsherr with the often amusing and sometimes intensely odd discussions he encounters via his contacts in more… theoretical areas of scholarship. Some of them-- like Hank McCoy-- are betas whose theories, while radical, are making inroads with mainstream research groups. Others have crossed deliberately into the fringe, tarnishing their reputations. A few are omegas like Xavier himself who, having attained a solitary education via their own tenacity and intelligence, have no obligation to follow a particular party line. 

"It was actually Foster who directed me to someone who-- g-ds help me-- had a family collection they weren't even _interested_ in," the scholar sighs with theatrical despair, making Erik laugh. The rag-tag band of intellectuals Charles has gathered around him have interests spanning everything from polymorphic evolution and pre-Burn history, to omegaist politics and wild conspiracy theories about the exodus from Old Earth. In some cases, Erik has had to fuss-- or, rather, temper his concern-- at Charles for mentioning subjects which could be construed as disloyal, pathologically rebellious, or having anarchist sympathies. Xavier rarely appreciates the 'overbearing' attitude, but at least Erik has a business excuse to be assiduous about the communications technology Raven employs.

"At any rate, once Foster and I finished quarreling about the location of New New York, I was able to convince her to help me complete my set of Portman's  Fuel Wars and the Rise of the Saharan Empire. I traded that to Reed in exchange for the book I gave you," Charles finishes with satisfaction, as if he hasn't just confessed to giving up six lovingly collected volumes for a single slim tome. Erik's gift is a rare find indeed, but hard copies of Portman's work are not easy to come by either. 

As graceless as this may seem, Lehnsherr cannot help pointing this out. More importantly, he chides, "Charles, you really must be more careful! Do you know this 'Reed' well enough?"

"I am not ignorant of the risks," Xavier replies. His voice is gentle, but a trifle cool as well. "Omega or no, I am an adult," a wry twist creeps into the tone, "biologically speaking, at least." 

 

Before the alpha can protest that logic and protective instinct _do_ occasionally align, the scholar segues into a related topic. "That does remind me, though-- given your broader knowledge of scholastic politics, it would really be much better for _you_ to go through my library than Raven."

"Go through it?" Erik echoes dully. His gaze is drawn, quite unwillingly, to the pewter-hued carpet that encompasses the main portion of the room. He recalls the ridiculous imagery of paper pages like snowflakes, melting letters, and the stir of memory that transported him back to the mausoleum that was once his childhood home. He has never been to Graymalkin Manor; for reasons of etiquette and Charles' own avowed distaste for bonding, Raven entertains only bonded alphas there. Affairs for Lehnsherr, Frost and Darkholme Engineering are usually held in the opulent conference pavilion Emma designed on site, or at her own well-appointed town home. Gently, gently, he pushes the book to the farthest edge of the desk, trying not to envision stacks of tomes, rooms empty of his scholarly friend but still vividly embodying his presence. These gifts, while expressions of Xavier's camaraderie and affection, reveal themselves once more to be harbingers of impending loss.

"I can't take everything with me," the omega reminds him, tone as gentle as the touch with which Lehnsherr himself pushed back the book. The faint ice-prickles of pride have vanished entirely-- at least from Charles' end. Erik is aware he's being handled, no matter how well-meaning it is, and tries to summon his own healthy ego. He doesn't need this cautious solicitude; an alpha is in command of themselves at all times, with that one intimate exception. And yet a part of him sinks into Xavier's regard and the notion that his friend does not, in fact, wish to cause him any more pain than necessary.

 

He sinks down into his chair, making faint noises of agreement as Charles begins rhapsodizing about the texts in his collection. Some of them Erik is already familiar with through previous discussions, or actually owns himself. Others are so rare that Xavier has obtained dispensation to bring them to the Basilica-- a place which, more and more, is taking on the image of a black hole in the alpha's mind. The unknown, possessed of devastating gravity, and destructive to life as it is currently known. Too close to the event horizon and no one can pull you back. 

Blissfully unaware of these musings, Charles invites Lehnsherr to help himself to anything that remains, and once more entreats him to assist Raven in selling the rest. At least, those which can be advertised without drawing comment. 

"I'll keep them all," Erik says with absolutely no forethought. For some reason, the statement seems more telling than its prosaic surface-- but the alpha cannot bring himself to tack on any levity.

"That's very kind of you," the scholar says after a significant pause. Almost a whisper, pitched so low-- and imbued with such undefinable emotion-- that is almost some future echo. A sound that is already infinitely far away. The omega is cleary taken aback by it as well, for he quickly launches into a catalogue of those volumes he thinks Erik will particularly enjoy.

 

Charles has such a beautiful voice-- one particularly suited to the ballads and epic poems that form his literary indulgence. The diction flows seamlessly, possessed of a subtle and enticing rhythm that exists even without the framework of verse. With that accent curling around his brain and the exhalation of the faint lightning bolts already flashing on the edge of the City, Lehnsherr feels almost blissfully drunk. The air has become dangerously still, every coil of the storm tense but withheld. That anticipatory aura evokes far more pleasant memories of the Northland's great thunder-snows-- a mixture of a boy's innocent excitement and the vague hum of sexuality which so often lulls those in the throes of adolescence to sleep. Despite the stillness, one can easily distinguish rippling thunderheads in the distance, moving with the speed of driven beasts. Each successive line grows darker, ragged like lace woven by traditional omegas on the coast.

Singularly enthroned in the great study chair, star-riddled eiderdown wrapped over his lap like a well-earned prize, Erik's body sings. As the ornate lightning rods of the City spires do for the approaching fury, as crystal does for the notes of the most exquisite aria. Charles is musing over some obscure detail of chimera mythology, and the monologue reaches Lehnsherr as a thing entire rather than individual words. Will he sleep tonight, Erik's friend, curled up in the covered nest-bed omegas almost universally favor, while the Western rains lull him to sleep?

Thunder rumbles, as though in response to his thoughts, a boom like dragons who would-- as in legends of old-- so dearly love to carry off living omega treasures, to croon over and adorn with jewels.

 

"Yes!" Xavier says, and the alpha experiences a brief moment of rational horror, not knowing what he may have inadvertently said aloud. "The dragon is a common symbol, even in the collective consciousness of pre-atomic Earth. The tales show them as being obsessed with omegas, yet they're universally portrayed as sexually dimorphic, not polymorphic."

"What does that matter? Their interest in omegas was hardly meant to be taken as a literal expression of some mating urge. They were hoarders and guardians-- formulaic trials for the hero-alpha of that particular folklore." 

"Of course they're symbolic." He's never seen Charles roll his eyes, but he can hear it. "The dimorphism is jarring, considering the collective unconscious they reflect. And we know for a fact that dogs were dimorphic as well."

"We're a higher order of being," Erik shrugs, slumping a little. He isn't at all bored with the discourse, but the day has been long and his relief at not having uttered improprieties aloud is great. "I'll grant you, in our more animal state, we may very well have also been dimorphic, but that would have been in Old Earth's stone age."

"Yet so many of the primates evolution credits as our forerunners are reported as continuing to present only two sexes well up to the Burn," Xavier points out stubbornly. 

"Vincenza reports them to be polymorphic."

"Vincenza!" And there it is, every inch the Xavier hauteur even Raven hasn't quite perfected, despite Emma's less-than-patient coaching. "There's a well-bolstered school of thought suggesting Vincenza is a forgery. I don't think he lived on Old Earth at all. It's likely Observations on the Cocos Lands was compiled from stories of older survivors-- he was probably of the shipboard generation. Reed's trying to publish on it, but he's not getting much traction."

Lehnsherr isn't surprised, and says as much. "After all, it's still assigned reading for freshman undergrads."

"It's just… frustrating. I wish a larger sample of fauna had been saved." Charles sighs, and the alpha refrains from pointing out that such good fortune likely would not have helped much, in the end. What has survived has been so tampered with by Imperium splice-designers as to be unrecognizable to their Terran kin.

"So much has been lost…" comes the distant murmur, trailing off only to be punctuated by a timpani of thunder so loud Erik can almost feel it in this bones. Even the crystal set's transmission wavers ever-so-slightly. 

 

"Sorry," Lehnsherr says, reaching to adjust the settings with sure fingers. "There's a storm coming up."

"A famous City storm." Said in such a way that the smile is clear. "It'll be down to just rain once it reaches the Casar Provinces. If only the City were on the transport route. There will be plenty of natural wonders to enjoy, but I should have liked to see it. And thunderstorms are so soothing."

"They are indeed," Erik says, barely managing to stifle a yawn.

The omega must hear it anyway, for he says, "Goodness, look at the time! I've been going on like mad-- I'm so sorry."

"Don't be. I lost track of it too." A glance at the mercury clock shows it is well past the second Vigil bell. Erik presses his lips into a firm line, fighting the childish superstition which begs him not to let the connection close. This foolishness _must_ stop. He will talk to Charles again soon; will call as often as he can get away with before communication must cease altogether. The sentiment drifts to his tongue, waiting to be expressed, but again he demurs. It annoys him, this atypical furtiveness-- he has not checked himself so often since he left boarding school, and even then he had his ears boxed regularly. Even industry success has failed to yolk him; he does not suffer fools or idle chit-chat gladly, which means Emma usually treads on his foot at least twice in the course of a dinner party.

 

"I'll keep writing," Charles says, unwittingly soothing the wounded pride. "We'll talk again before I go."

"Yes." Erik pulls the quilt more closely about his shoulders, feeling enveloped as though by a sacerdotal garment. He's in shirt-sleeves and trousers, with all the chamber lights blazing, and the dinner Maria doubtless brought him is cooling, unseen and neglected, in the sitting room. He feels drained but warm, unwilling to move.

"The duvet is beautiful, too," he says quietly, tracing the outline of Perseus. "It's perfect."

"Far from it," Xavier chuckles self-consciously. "My Etiquette and Domestic Arts tutors despaired of me."

" _I_ like it," the alpha intones, sealing the matter. "I'm sorry, Charles-- I should go. I have meetings _all day_ tomorrow." He does not add that this is largely his fault.

"Poor thing." A phrase Erik would never tolerate from anyone else. From the scholar, it feels almost like a reward-- a soothing caress of his hair. "That's dreadful. Tell Raven she simply must assist you, or you'll use her bonus to secure your release."

"And wouldn't she love to know whose idea _that_ was? At any rate, my scientific staff is rarely moved by finances."

"Ah, but all scientists can be seduced with shiny new equipment." Charles must be tired as well, for he makes an odd clearing of his throat, and the voice that follows is once more possessed of that solemn gray strangeness. "Erik. Erik, you'll be alright."

Lehnsherr doesn't respond, fighting the somnolent opaqueness of his senses and almost sure he hasn't heard correctly. He must not have done because, when the omega repeats himself, it is only: "Erik, goodnight."

"Goodnight," he replies, having just enough presence of mind to flip the switch on the handset and close the transmission. 

 

He's tried, so tired. Rallying, he manages to stumble the fifteen feet to the bed, letting the heavy drapings shield him from the lamps he's left alight. By the names of all his fore bearers, he hasn't felt this drained and desiccated since the last time he went out drinking with Wilson and Rhodes! Too old to keep up the the college bucks-- isn't _that_ a sad realization. At least this stupor does not pivot on horrible lances of pain within his skull. Lehnsherr pulls the eiderdown closer, burying his face in it once more. 

The bed curtains are drawn and the chamber's tapestries thick-- there are none here to observe his weakness. Many would not know it as such, for there are no tears or dishabille. Only silence and unguarded expression, which are still too much vulnerability for a true alpha. Even Charles, whose countertenor tones are at once so soothing and yet so mournful, must never bear witness to such a display. In the morning, Lehnsherr will rationalize this however he must-- but dawn will only whittle away more Time and is therefore not to be contemplated. On Old Earth, during the post-Burn wars when omegas were few, it is said alpha warriors would often drag themselves into thickets or caves when fatally wounded. They wished to die in solitude; suffer the final defeat unseen. Erik knows this isn't going to kill him. In time, Charles may only be an old  
_(beloved, carefully tended)_  
wound. 

Earlier, the restlessness in his joints, and the very marrow of his bones, felt insurmountable. Now, Erik is certain he will sleep, and dream. Perhaps he will even have _the_ dream. He'd like to think so.

_'To me, then,'_ he invites the specter, which is as opposed to his intellectual framework as the chaotic events of the day, though it is older and far more welcome. A comfort, tracing almost from his earliest graduate days.

 

_'My arms are empty, empty. I open them to you.'_

 

.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Meredith's Glossary and Bizarre World-Building Notes:  
> [+] _kerubihm_ \- angelic spirits/animal totems; a creature with eagle wings, lion's feet, bull's head, and a serpent tail.  
> [+] _"Entreat me not to leave thee, and to return from following after thee; for whither thou goest, I will go."_ Ruth 1:16. I imply something a little beyond friendship in regards to Ruth and Naomi, but their relationship is moving and significant even as a platonic friendship.  
>  [+] I realize that, in Greek mythology, Andromeda is actually Cassiopeia's daughter-- though there's significant evidence to suggest that she may actually be a variation on Astarte, the Philistine goddess who required the god's prove themselves worthy of her attention by slaying sea-monsters. I don't know about you, but that seems a _lot_ better than being chained to a rock 'cause your mom couldn't stop bragging on you. ^_~
> 
> Heh, even my notes were long winded. X_x'' As always, thank you so much for reading-- if I could bother you a bit more to comment or kudos, I'd be very much obliged. ;-)


	5. Chapter 5

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> If my New Year's resolution was to update neglected fics, this one definitely qualifies. This shorter is a little bit shorter than some of the others (though not as short as Charles' letter!), but the end break seemed to come naturally. I actually have more written, but I also figured I wouldn't make you wait while I type it up. That is, if anyone remembers this story! ^^' As always, thank you so much for taking the time to read my work. An extra-special super shout-out goes to **Willdew** for the thoughtful comments and discussion that helped reinvigorate this story. And, as always, to **valancysnaith** , my favorite partner in crime. 
> 
> **Trigger Warnings** : Biological determinism arguments analogous to the treatment of women in the nineteenth and early twentieth centuries, institutionalized child abuse, gender constructs resulting in emotional and psychological repression, general dystopian elements on par with any Golden Age sci-fi.  
>  **Additional Warnings ******(Enticements): Erik's erotic if somewhat abstract dreams, Meredith's purple prose (sorry ^^), some dub-con elements evolving to an understanding of the need for positive consent, weird imagery, queering of mythology. Whee.

Erik is an alpha who has taught himself not to dream. Perhaps that is not so surprising, on the surface, given the general agreement that interest in such phantasms is the purview of elderly omegas and the limited beta priesthood. Alphas, those stewards and protectors of the race, are discouraged from all but the most perfunctory of religious or metaphysical considerations. It is their science and philosophy which has drawn the species from the post-atomic Dark Ages, and it must remain free of all save those proofs established by the most rigorous empiricism. Isis-- the she who pieced together her broken omega husband-- and the great weapon smith Vulcan stood as caryatids in the grand hall of Erik's boarding school, their stern stone faces and full battle dress designed to daily reinforce for the students of Alkali Martial Academy those standards to which all alphas are held. 'Knowledge with application, dedication, respect for authority and loyalty! Only righteous guardians will be able to protect humanity from another Burn and usher the whole towards the pinnacle of evolution. The alpha has no time for the vague notions and softness with which omegas-- by their very nature-- must be insulated.' 

Yet, no matter the fiery sermons of Marshall Headmaster Stryker and others of his spartan ilk, Lehnsherr knows the truth is more unbending than a warrior's spine:   
To dream, and to remember such upon waking, is the singular curse of humanity. This is as true in the New Imperium as it was on old Earth, and Erik is acquainted with the treachery of slumbering visions more intimately than most. The subconscious mind is an enemy within, whose damage calls as spilt blood to the predators that circle without.

The absolute tyranny of blackness he institutes within his mind has not been achieved without struggle. It began as a war waged both in stern self-preservation and at the urging of the humiliating lash. So much of his life is delineated by the death of his parents that it is almost as though he died then himself, barred from _sheol_ at the last moment by a G-d already mighty in his cruelties. The wraith-like creature who arrived at boarding school two months later was an outwardly stoic creature beset by burning images. The grotesque way his mother's hair curled in the blaze, setting her cover-alls alight until she was only a screaming pillar of flame; the emaciated form of his father who, dead of a broken bond, scarcely looked any different from his alpha's week-old corpse. No condolences or Rabbinical wisdom could dismiss these things-- certainly not the cloying, false sympathy of distant and financially avid relatives. Upon reaching the only possible alternative to their questionable auspices-- the alternative whose truth his mother could never have imagined-- he found solace more lacking still.

 

At Alkali Academy, he soon learned that that the slightest wavering of reserve bore only the fruit of ridicule and contempt-- from staff and students alike. How many lashes had he received for being so strange and disinclined to participate, so clearly not one of the pack? The Master Teachers (all retired Star Corps alphas) almost seemed pleased when they could break a young buck, make him cry like a pup longing for its omega mother or father. It was the rule of 'stags, blood, and antlers', as Emma called it; everyone jockeying for position on the food chain. She herself had been known as 'freaky Frost', standing on the barest edges of social acceptance. Shadowed always by the strange suicide of her omega brother, her own natural and mocking propensity for the truth did very little to endear her to either colleagues or instructors. 

"You must be careful," she'd whispered, unexpectedly shoving him face-first into the wall the very day they were assigned as bunkmates. She was slight but swift, having the added advantages of surprise and a long history of dormitory brawling. Confused, the twelve year old 'new pup' struck back on instinct, bloodying the blond girl's nose and receiving a half-Nelson in return. 

'Repeat what they tell you, even if you don't believe it,' had been her whispered parting advice, just before the Dorm Betas made the desultory pretense of breaking up the fight. Erik still doesn't know what it was Emma sensed in him to prompt such clandestine aid and-- no matter his personal gratitude-- the school's unspoken alpha 'code of honor' dictated he launch his own attack in retaliation. Later, they settled into a publicly wary truce that masked tacit understanding. In the cold lightlessness of their spartan barracks, they studiously ignored one another's soft sounds of despair or anxious battles with thin bedding, never once reporting the other's lapse, though the school encouraged such policing. 

By the time they reached fourth form, they were acknowledged _hypaspistes_ , having bested enough rivals-- both separately and as a team-- to be largely except from bullying. Frost's advice had not been misplaced. 'Might is Right', blared the maxim of the academy, chiseled into the stone-flesh of both patron idols where their andocite swords were raised high. Erik's own mother always said a true alpha should be confident enough to stand on their own, knowing subordinates would be drawn by their honor and dedication, rather than bombastically demanding respect. He learned to parrot the academic commanders, addressing his silent prayers to her instead of the murderous and Nameless G-d whose worship was, at any rate, forbidden. Both Houses of the Imperium Parliament had passed 'tolerance' legislation; pretty words emblazoned on vid-scrolls, but of little use amongst those raised on the grossest stereotypes of monotheists. He graduated at last at the top of his class, as dreamless and expressionless as the stone gods that had overseen his days. There was little for any prospective atelier to find fault with in his record, which had contained just enough penalties for 'combative damage' to classmates to prove he was virile and assertive without being anti-social or 'deviant'. Let it never be said he fought for show, however; his well of rage was as bottomless as the pits of Gehenna and as cold as the northern snows of his birth. Others met this controlled fury due to some violation of Lehnsherr's internal morality and, since Erik never spoke as to what offended him, they made their own crass assumptions. Only Emma knew-- as he knew of her in turn-- that the great educational kiln had not turned out yet another perfectly standardized citizen-soldier, but a chameleon whose iron armor hid a great deal of difference within. For Isis was tender as she mended her broken bond-mate, and Vulcan built his arsenal that he might forget the constant ache of Aphrodite's indifference.   
Ah, as Charles is fond of observing, how inconvenient is the actual text to those who would interpret it for their own purposes!

 

There is but one glaring exception in Erik's mastery of his dreams-- a weakness as beloved as it is utterly incomprehensible. Had it come in his adolescence, it might have destroyed him in its very attempt to comfort and nourish, for no exile in the desert can afford the burden of hope. It is no mere fleeting impression to disturb the careful riggings of his well-ordered being, but a dear and reoccurring nocturnal vision-- and a gem of imagination the likes of which Lehnsherr usually reserves for his beloved starships. No one would credit it if he were to confide the details. The Lord of Sharks, the whip hand alpha of the R & D staff, whose unimpressed stare or sharp smile can send subordinates scrambling for cover? Surely no such lavish imagery would find welcome in _that_ irascible predator! Certainly, he has never told anyone of the dream, not even Charles. Aside from the sheer impropriety of sharing itself-- it inspires in Erik a possessiveness almost as bizarre as its actual contents. Yet it came during a period of unprecedented freedom, and perhaps that is its source-- the broadened horizons of Atelier, the luxury of privacy in having his own quarters, and the invigorating beginnings of his correspondence with Charles. 

Though deeply disconcerted by the dream's advent, Erik was never the less enthralled from the very first, and has long since ceased to really question the root of the vision or its meaning. It comes to him, intervals of absence lengthy and unpredictable, resurfacing at odd times only later recognized as having been of need.

Now, his form little but a heap of exhaustion in his bed while the memory of Charles' voice curls through his brain like tendrils of delicious incense, Lehnsherr senses that the dream is near. Beyond the muffling bed-curtains, the City is alive with the orchestral fugue of night rain and its attendant thunder, but the incipient visitor is more potent and vibrant still. Almost unbearably tender, it seems to both bloom from within Erik's being and kindly invade from without. This visitant is definitely stronger than he, and so frustratingly ephemeral. Unable to clutch it closer, the alpha buries his face in the starry gift of Charles' eiderdown quilt and joyfully, unthinkingly, gives himself over. 

 

While there are slight variations, there is a sameness to the dreams that speaks of solidity and sacrament, making Erik hushed and reverent even before the lines and colors of his surroundings fully coalesce. He stands in a marble threshold with no thought for what might lie behind him, and only peaceful acceptance of the large, arching chamber spread before. There are many shadows in the vast gallery; corners obscured to him, monochrome twists of column and frescos of delicately carven nacre only half-glimpsed. Each of these, whether recalled from other interludes or remaining unseen, is as utterly known to the alpha as every starship that has come to life under his hand. Every sconce and pilaster, every tessellated tile of the milky quartz floor is familiar and… welcoming. Accepting in a fundamental, subconscious way unequaled even by the iron, platinum, niobium, and molybdenum that thrill his artist's heart. To call it 'home' is to miss the fact this place is somehow partly an extension of himself. Organic and, by virtue of that, quite capable of merging with another creative force. The overwhelmingly white pallet of the chamber is warm; a living pearl concealing within all colors, rather than than obdurate silver. Perhaps it is some clever oyster's encasement of light from Earth's lost and storied moon. 

Lehnsherr-- nude and as unselfconscious in this regard as in waking life-- steps into the room fully. His advance is slow, but not hesitant. This movement obeys the one command imbued in every line and curve of architecture: _'come forward, come to _me_'_. It makes him pleasantly dizzy to follow the compulsion and center his own attention on the architectural focus of the chamber. The place is a vault, windowless save the one great portal situated at the far end-- a towering construction of glass that casts all in a profound, comforting blue light. 

Filled though he is with a deep sense of comfort and pervasive, lethargic bliss, Erik still makes the effort to lift his hand. Turning it over in the light, he marvels at the feel of the azure glow-- the weightless lapping of warm water, a carress from a flickering shadow. Palm up, his hand seems to hold an illusory fist-full of jewels. Sapphire, indigo, cerulean, and smalt; each one of a hundred thousand stained-glass shards held together in their great golden frame. The window blazes, serving to both bathe the alpha in its calming light and shield him from the sharper edge inherent in the source of power beyond. The gold of the casement shimmers and pulses with darker ochre veins, palpitations that grow more potent as Lehnsherr draws near. Some feet away, there are steps leading up to a dais under that vibrant masterpiece, but he sinks to his knees at their base with no consideration of ever coming closer. He knows better than that, by now. 

The alpha, engineer, and businessman he is in conscious life has little patience for psychology or 'therapeutic deconstruction'. To him, it's all just a different way of dressing up the beads and rattles you find on any priest or shaman-- hardly worth a place on scientific shelves. Still, he's been exposed to enough pop-philosophy to recognize a symbol when he sees one. In any such traditional framework, that would be his blue window _in toto_ , a reductive notion that strikes him as irksome while waking and downright blasphemous in the throes of the dream. The observation is so simple that it's probably true-- and therefore deceptive. He gives it little consideration in any state, for no prosaic prop can explain the _feeling_ associated with that closed portal. The star-strewn glass is beautiful and awful-- awful in the old sense of the word. 'Full of awe'. As Perseus glimpsed Medusa only in the mirror of his shield, as Moses was ordered to turn his back while the Nameless G-d passed behind him, there is something here which must not be seen.   
_'Er lasst sich nicht lesen'_. 

 

Though the truth may be as obvious as the simple quantum forces which hold the universe intact, some instinct within him knows that-- in such an profound situation as this-- ignorance must endure. Any hint, any grasp of the larger design could destroy him and, more importantly, fatally wound the treasured presence which permeates the dream. It is not necessarily an active or operational force despite its seeming authority, since the other feels as content and ensorcelled as Erik himself. It is, however, a consciousness; a stranger intimately known, a precious one gone so long memory has fled all but the very atoms of the alpha's being. Even within the limitless potential of the dream, he can conceive of it only vaguely, understanding for the first time why the strictures of his people forbid any attempt to depict or humanize the Nameless G-d.

Once something is defined, it is also incarnate. A vessel is created for what was once an inchoate wonder; a thing which, unveiled, would have unintentionally burned its worshipful observer to ash. Embodiment, by its very definition, creates the possibility of touch. Hands seek to stroke, to outline, trembling every moment with the desire to grasp. If the blue starlight-- _Erik's_ starlight-- were a living being, the alpha would not be able to help himself. He would seize it with cautious but implacable fervor, tuck it up against his own form to guard it and please himself over the fact of successful possession. Perhaps the entity, or the idea it represents-- for, after all, it may only be some wisp from Lehnsherr's subconscious-- does well to be afraid. Though the alpha would shield it at the expense of all else, he would also make his devotion an offering-- and a lavish cage. 

Adored or not, it has no desire to be known by him in full. The connection is tentative, as reluctant as it is necessary and comforting. A thing not of darkness but of light; a kind of anti-silhouette which eludes Erik no matter how indolent the pleasure they share. Further union is impossible, for the Source is beyond the window, which Lehnsherr may not approach.  
He has learned that the hard way.

 

He was foolish enough to attempt it, once. Having experienced the profound vision twice already, Erik's only waking reaction had been to hollow out a place inside of himself for the precious images. The act itself was a concession, a spectacular exception to his natural pragmatism; unaccustomed to tasting any but the fruits of his own labor, he had very little else to give. Happy memories from childhood exist, it's true, but he has always been reluctant to approach them-- doing so infrequently, and with the caution of a man who fears the removal of a single diamond will cause the entire mine to collapse. 

Yet when the vision proved its persistence, the dragon of avarice woke at last within Lehnsherr to seek something other than revenge. Though he openly acknowledges his weakness for artistic beauty, Erik found his typical sedate observer's appreciation quenched nothing in this instance. The golden window-- the starlight and what its radiance must conceal-- was not a lovely statue or exhibition in the Artist's Pavilion to be admired with no yearning for nearness. While its loveliness was akin to music, to a well-constructed starship or museum piece, it was not meant for the pleasure of all. Not even could it be likened to some of the rare items Lehnsherr occasionally pursued; books or tools or tapestries to bid upon and be viewed with transient wistfulness if the auctioning became too rich for his blood. Previously content to cut his teeth on academic conquest, the alpha had finally discovered real desire. _This_ treasure, surely, was meant to be **his**. Had it not made him numerous visits, its very gracefulness and innervation an invitation in and of itself? 

The allure was too much. He yearned and lost his mind in that yearning, had moved forward with the inexorable stealth of the soldier/predator to take possession of that which possessed him. Below thought, singing in the rush of atavistic devotion, he crooned:  
 _'Fear me not, _Lior_, my marvel; let me, let me, devour your rapture/ enfold what is mine/ sustain us both, clutch and pleasure you 'til you cry…'_

His ardor and all the resplendent affection around him vanished so abruptly it seemed to leave Erik in the void of space itself. The terrible, blank vastness of which explorer alphas spoke, Black beyond the humanity's haven system like pitching over the lip of Hell itself. Adrift in a single catastrophic plane, no dimension or direction to be had, he screamed soundlessly, knowing himself to be cast off. Thrown, as ancient mammals once jerked and strained to be free of a predator's jaws, pursuers they left reeling in their dust as they fled. Later, sheepishly, his mind would conjure old stories of expulsion, that loss of paradise echoed in such dizzying multiplicity by so many cultures. He would think of his own people's first Alpha and Omega, stumbling and benumbed east of Gan'Eden. Yet in his heart, so recently fired to burning not centered on revenge, his initial comparison was one of amputation. As if he had reached inside himself and yanked free some vital organ, thinking in his delirium that he must inspect it in his hand.   
He'd woken sweating, choking on apologies he could never articulate. 

 

For three months thereafter, Erik did penance. His nights went unvisited, regaining their surface blankness and order, beyond which something else seemed to stir-- fitful, irregular. While by no means the bleak purgatory that had been his child's grief, his being seemed then overcome by a sort of spiritual frostbite, all for worse for the implication he had turned warmth aside. It mattered not that he discounted these notions utterly in all but the smallest of hours tolled on Clock Tower Hill. He was punctual, erudite in his assignments, assiduous with his responsibilities… and fraying at the seams of self. Lehnsherr found himself sleeping in shallow restlessness or not at all, more than once stalking along the Bridge of Crossings at vespertide, seeking some physical outlet for his agitation. Phil and Maria despaired over his uneaten meals; the undergraduate artisans he supervised tread lightly, and wincingly prayed to a variety of gods for the remaining threads of his patience. Indeed, he felt those braided cords pulled tight in protest, swaying precariously, as though burdened with the sword of mythical Damocles. His inner landscape, always treacherous, seemed fraught with potential ruin he could not clearly see. 

The few bucks with which Erik had passing acquaintance might have noticed he joined their carousals a bit more frequently (that is, he did not turn down every invitation), but none were intimate enough to guess anything was amiss beneath that stoic facade. Only Emma, who 'indulged' in such partying with a sparse predictability that spoke of the perfunctory, seemed to notice her _hypaspistes_ ' distemper. Yet seeing and speaking have always been two separate things, particularly in alpha friendships. The 'tweeners' (barely legal betas in omega drag) at places like the Turgid Pillar and the Pretty Whistle seemed to Lehnsherr more irksome than ever, their ritualized coquetry sliding from boring to downright depressing despite the fact his colleagues were enthralled. The noise at least served to block out the static of loss in his own mind; preferable to the sound of the clock ticking in his chambers only in the way drowning is preferable to being stabbed. Emma, doggedly buying rounds for all, would instigate games of drunken skill in the open courtyards of such establishments. She soundly tranced his hungover carcass with such smugness that, to this day, Erik still isn't sure if she was actually doing him any favors. 

 

It had been Charles who truly sensed the directionless conflict in the alpha-- Charles, who had only word choice and the cramped flow of handwriting by which to divine his fellow correspondent's distress. Their friendship was in its summer, close enough to allow for more personal subjects but still so new they had not even broached the taboo of speaking wirelessly. The notion of an omega's 'emotional barometer' and natural nurturing response is cliche; too treacly for Lehnsherr's taste, and certainly something he'd never want to foist on the scholar. To be entirely factual, his friend never actually inquired as to the root of the sparse and often laboriously rewritten letters, never made an observation that Erik would have instinctually interpreted as an accusation of some sort. That firm, round hand sent back only intimations of that compassion so particular to Xavier-- concern without pity-- and an equally subtle invitation to commiserate. 

_'I, too,'_ Charles wrote, _'find myself very weary of the days. Perhaps this lies in the passing of high publishing season. We scholars get ever so cagey in our communications, each of us trying to cook up something fresh and innovative for next year. I must find some new, unplumbed area of study (suggestions most heartily welcome), for I do loathe this sense of disconnection. Of fraught… _amputation_.'_

The metaphor resounded within Lehnsherr like a gong. How much easier was it to wish Charles' melancholy might be eased than to recognize his own! And to have his friend speak for him without wholly knowing, pen the words he could not, was a balm no apothecary could concoct. ' _Hypaspistes_ ,' he had thought, another unspoken word with no image paired to it. Instead, he murmured it in conjunction with the syllables of Charles' name, and was satisfied with the sound of the truth. 

( _Forgetting, of course, that the truth can be as dangerous as a lie. Two sides of the double-edged sword, and of these the truth is sharper. Because it is naked and because, like the city-sized icebergs that stalk slowly in the Northern Seas, there is always more underneath._ )

Perhaps the greatest proof of whatever blighted him then is the fact he remembers so few details from that brief period. For a man who has always kept meticulous notes on academic and business events, it makes for a disconcerting blank. Thankfully, it ended up mattering very little. Charles' suggestion of intellectual ennui was as perceptive as ever. Lehnsherr was shortly assigned to a larger project, whose business connections through Atelier donors made the challenge even more enticing. Charles himself discovered a lengthy monograph on linguistic divergence between isolated ships during the Exodus, and Emma began research on theoretical Warp Core design-- which would eventually become the presentation that caused her fate to converge so violently with that of Shaw. Within a matter of days (or so it seemed), the drought was over, be it a true return of the dream or merely the end of some bizarre period of subconscious self-flagellation. Recognition of the light-- such an impossible and almost painful blue-- unfolding in Erik's mind had brought only joy to the alpha. Resentment and anger were rendered obsolete by the contrition which laced that glow, and the happy relief which seemed to slide down the golden casement like summer rain. 

 

Even now, the light thickens about Erik, deliquescent and comforting as a thick fur mantle, consoling and distracting him from the unpleasant memory. The alpha smiles gently, turning his face up as one would towards the sun. He has never felt deliberately hurt by this other. His own instinct had been to pursue; the other's had been to flee. Being able to master such base responses is the quest of every intelligent being. 

Not that Lehnsherr is feeling deeply philosophical at the moment. The catechism-- one of his mother's-- floats through his mind and is gone, as one might dreamily remark on some distant noise on a peaceful night. It brings only a half-quirk of the lips, a memory unaccompanied by pain and willingly shared. A rarity, for him. The glow carries with it a blissful tidal warmth he cannot help but sway with slightly. He has the delirious notion the light will not _let_ him fall, intoxicated to the degree he cannot summon alarm at the wistful atmosphere that also comes to permeate the room.   
As if time is short.

_(and, in the language beneath language, as all things here must be; 'now is the only thing we can allow to matter…')_

With both exposure and grace unselfconscious, Erik kneels at the base of the steps, marble warm and incongruously giving beneath his joints. Kissing the light where it falls, he rolls his head to the side-- not merely naked now, but neck bared. The action is as alien as swallowing fire and as natural as breathing, a sign of submission he could never bring himself to give in waking life. No matter what the consequence, he acknowledges no victor. In that way, he is one with the teeming mass of alpha humanity. Death before dishonor. Within the confines of the dream-- the circle of protection in marble that is beginning to feel more and more like soft, warm snow-- such things are beneath his

_(their?)_

notice. Erik surrenders gratefully because the reward is not conditional. The strangely familiar affection and acceptance are his whether or not he makes this offering-- but oh! how rapturous in the gentle hand that comes to shield him in return.

 

He's so hard now that rising would be burdensome, fangs fully unsheathed in his excitement. He keeps his mouth closed, lips gingerly concealing his sharp canines for fear of frightening the other. Always tenacious in his effort to achieve any goal, he has in this one instance come to terms with limitation. The window will be interacted with on its terms, or not at all. As though granting a boon for such respect, the illumination intensifies, gaining the comforting weight of water. The tide is there, stronger, an invitation he obeys as he slips from his kneeling position to lay down, unaware his motions are like those of a large and very satisfied feline. The azure brilliance covers him softly, the fall of plum blossoms in the short Northern summers of his youth. Luxuriating, Lehnsherr stretches so the whole of his naked form is taut, then curls himself into the precise delineations of the shape cast by his mysterious portal. A little moan escapes him as the urgent edge of his arousal is transmuted into the sort of vague, sleepy pleasure that is its own satisfaction. The paradoxically yielding marble contours around him, cradling; he knows he is held safe and temperate in this one moment, sheltered from the cold and mechanized grindings of the mindless and merciless universe.

Loved, content, he falls asleep within his own dream. 

 

.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> [+] _Hypaspistes-_ (Greek) 'shield-bearer', Macedonian infantry guard. In this fic, a person one considers an equal and comrade.  
>  [+] _sheol_ \- (Hebrew) Often translated as 'hell' or 'hades', it doesn't really have the connotations of suffering. Sometimes its used somewhat interchangeably with Gehenna, and in other instances it's more of just a place for the dead to go while waiting for the Moshiach (messiah). A lot of it is up to context.  
> [+] _Gehenna_ \- (Hebrew) A metaphysical place of punishment and suffering, named after a valley cursed due to its use as a place of human sacrifice.  
> [+] _'Er lasst sich nicht lesen'_ \- (German) 'It does not permit itself to be read'. Quoted from Edgar Allan Poe's "The Man of the Crowd".  
> [+] _Lior_ \- (Hebrew) 'My light'. Unisex name, sometimes also used as an endearment.
> 
> As always, any comments or thoughts you should chose to leave would make me one happy little clam! Are clams happy? You never hear them to complain. ^_~ Kudos make me bounce with glee.


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